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It’s a story that began in middle earth, where the relentless energy of all we cannot control or understand

travels across right and wrong and down through spirit valleys into the unseen shadows of light between our human bones.

It’s a story that I already know and I wonder if you do too.

It’s a story authored by a tramp with a santa beard and a mischief heart who spins and spins on metal discs in playgrounds

then flings himself off the second before lifting the pen.

It’s a story I thought I didn’t need to hear again

and now I too am reeling in circles, giddy, dizzy and alone in the end.

The end I’ve read so many times, yet here we are fighting so fiercely,

so dangerous and defrosted and naked

over what happens in chapter two,

and I’m going to let you write it,

oh god.

Am I going to let you write it?


It’s a story whose ashes still fester in my abdomen

refusing again to rise to a better place,

and now I see the cinders there

staring back at me from the genie lamp in your iris,

your strangely familiar face.

This story is a staple meal for Beauty, Agony, Loneliness, Magic

and even the Gods of gods, Life and Life in Death.

They eat it like coconuts, smash it open, slurp its blood, taste it on their tongues, their throats,

revel it its descent, then they rip it apart and gnaw at its flesh and throw it away, an empty shell of a tiny story,

unrecognisable now.


In the shell of an old story I will sit with you and watch on curiously as you touch me for the first time:

the arm, the head, the hair in my eyes, the shoulder, the waist, the mouth, the cheek, the mouth, the mouth, the thigh, the breast, and yes, that’s right, I told you to stop, to stop, to... stop.


In this story I’m the addict and you know all the tricks: poetry music magic far away mountains lepricorns and russian ushanka hats,

oh, and they way you kiss my ears like they’re the secret key to the only box I was trying to keep for myself.

It’s a story in which even a kiss is culturally subjective,

and I’m on all fours again in the sand, making mud cakes with soggy, salty treacle

only I’m too old now to read this

without feeling sick.


I know this story as it begins with a naked girl

with sticky hands and a broken tongue alone in a room with an almost stranger,

wondering what happened

to the beautiful clothes she planned on wearing

with the dying flowers that no longer look fit to crown her head.

And it ends the same way it began with the forceful, thoughtlessness of a beautiful young man

who believes in magic and makes sure he gets it who ever it belongs to

even if it’s mine and I carry it in the heart of my womb.


It’s a story that’s a lot happier than the way I remember it.

Euphoric in fact. And yes,

I’ve often had the audacity to call it love.

I like to read it again and again, sifting through the pages for the exact moment my ravishing need for Life becomes my


Perhaps I’m thinking if I just knew

I could forget, move on. Forget. Move on.

Perhaps I’m calculating that there’s a certain moment

in a certain chapter, where, if I hold the pen really tight, I might just escape

with most of my soul organs in tact.

Or perhaps, in fact, I’m only reading, reading this story

because its author is my muse;

this giddy, musical man, half naked, unshaven, in the playground without a home, dancing to the sheet music burnt into the disc of the sun

as time goes by unnoticed on a silent metronome


recalling time

a jacaranda seed, an upside down city,

a red scarf, a white lie, an undelivered gift

a familiar face, a stolen grace an almost untraceable prelude to the saddest, most beautiful eulogy

ever sung on the eve of a birth.






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