Tag: poem

I’m not looking for someone perfect,
but someone who would trade empty pots
on the windowsill for a good synecdoche
rather than fill them with jade plants;
someone who passionately navigates
through crowded bookshelves and empty
beaches full of sand-coloured pages;
someone who spices bread with a pinch
of Catullus and a dash of Khayyam.
That is the one I would struggle with,
because there are always some struggles,
and finally find out what Winger’s
boomshakalaka means.

As presumptuous as it might be, I think we nailed
the sobriety of all the microwaved expectations
out of the marital freezer, none of which exceeded
the level of spasm. And every time we tried to start over
because of some vastly overestimated ability to overcome
our inclination to numbness, it only ever got us as far
as a momentary inflammation of incarcerated souls.
No wonder we barely made it to our honeymoon
graveyard.

It’s been two years since we drew that bold line
and abandoned the canvas somewhere in the loft.
I gave up the easels. You let the brushes and paints go.
The dust took care of the rest.

Over time, even the need to prepare a foundation
seemed like nothing more than an evanescent reflex.

Then, all of a sudden, you were standing in my doorway
with the scent of turpentine and varnish,
which I could no longer recognise, even if I dared
to brush it with my fingertips.

After you left, I wondered, was it something else
or just muscle memory?

After many a night, when the constant parade of substitute futures
diving into my halcyon booth leaves an aftertaste of a sealed body,
I wander the deserted beach, chased by the enraged cries of seagulls
fighting over the garbage, looking for an excuse to shed my wet shirt.
How pathetic. If only I had remembered to bring a bathrobe or towel
instead of a fig leaf.

“Words never rust, I promise.” That is what you said, remember?
Yet, it still feels like mocking Harlequin and Columbine at Tivoli.
And you can’t even wink now, once we have played all the classics
we never intended to. On second thoughts, perhaps you are right.
Maybe it is not rust, but the deceptive patina of well-kept devotion
to righteousness.

When windows become doors and doors windows,
when every next bus stop is a rushed page away,
and a kachina doll collection takes on such importance
as if my life depended on it, what is the cadaver of me
if not just another of my favourite contraptions?

I thought if I moved on, one day I would have a decent bed,
lined with satin strokes and a longing “once upon a time,”
with Chet’s Almost Blue and merrily misplaced cufflinks
in the background. Maybe even a bowl of strawberries
on the bedside table next to the iambi of a gentleman
in a straw hat. And there would always be a moment
to watch the magpies frolicking on the windowsill,
or a bit of bedroom banter involving cantharides
and the exchange rate for sea glass or pebbles.

I thought if I moved on, one day I would meet
the sentiment.

I remember when “for ever” simply complemented “are we there yet?”,
only to turn into “for as long as it is humanly possible” over time.
But as The Freewheelin’ has stopped spinning over the winter months
and only the seagulls can keep up with the cry, “for ever” is undefined,
for now.

Sometimes I take pictures of genre scenes
with half-empty bottles. I hoard them in rolls
of undeveloped film lying around in the drawer
next to old crayon drawings and library admonitions.
If there is enough time, I print watermarked labels,
but a tired glance is usually all it takes.

Perhaps you would like to meet my father
and grandfather, my uncles and cousins,
and all the other close and distant male relatives,
neighbours, friends, and enemies of mine
and theirs. These are the men from whom I inherited
the drawer.