A thoughtless beginning, a fight about nothing, nothing to fight about; I sat upon my old dank chair, with the fluffing drawling from its tattered cushion. I peer through the window and see old familiar things; ghosts silhouetted in moonlight always thinly passing in whispers. You and I sat quietly in the numb attitude of lovers on the winter hill. Surrounded by squabbling ducks and winter dreary, not so much talking, the warmth of two bodies together is soothing enough, although we sit in brooding malice; upon a bench, high throne, with the dewy scarlet land flooding away before the limits of misty eyes. I watch the river in the deepening gloom dozing of daylight; it turns out beyond the town. It is better days to have the one you trust in love above all others hold you, than not hold you! I spied so many warm winter homes, glowing with Christmas joy, just an illusion, of a sanctuary; that place being at once remarkable and yet un-attainable, only the faint exterior. But still it's the depiction of warmth and safety that excites the feral children; sniffling and grunting deep in the torn flesh brambleberry bush; those delicate chalk fingers disintegrating to be bitten and engraved on prickled barbs.
Now and again from the seat, in the car, watching in silence, looking out and in at the same time, so many warm winter houses with soundless people talking on the right side of family glass. Strange this time of year, when distant motorways seen from an empty swift train become carnival ways and pantomime Christmas lights, twinkling in the dimness. I alone, slightly chill sleepy in the motion of heavy metal chugging along dusty rail tracks, out into the night, passing my youth out in dry sighs along the burgundy bronze railway tracks of nowhere, running sadly through the entire universe. When you look up from your reading and peep sadly out into the night, and you can see your own tired face reflected glumly in the window. My face, with its sad eyes, and hair parted on one side, tucked up scruffy in a bobble that has virtually snapped under the strain of untamed thoughtless hair. The face of a stranger, it's the face of a derelict adolescence, a homage to corrupted silence. The hushed half reality of a train journey could almost last forever. For even car brake lights and indicators seem to be purposefully magical with their murky glow, and bright and glorious shimmering at Christmas, merry Christmas. I am not so much sad, or indeed miserable, not in the least bit depressed, if anyone can truly judge their own hearts, and I choose to judge mine in infinitesimal detail, I am sure there are reasons.
Upon that winter mound, we sit quite but for the raging dialogue in our own minds; I could smite you with twelve well chosen words. Quietness is simply more space, some empty place half remembered for its brutality and austerity. Like an abandoned shop, with the dusty signs, and polite notices on the window, old SALE! SALE! SALE! Sashes hanging limply from the discreet cream walls, it's a place of once activity, of comings and goings, interest and amusement, but ultimately abandonment, a thousand un profitable voids, that's exactly what it is, an unprofitable chasm. So what you gain from silent brooding is precisely what you loose from that ever mumbling clock face. Similar to all the dark places of life, it consumes the light around you, vacant mysteries that can only exist by some parasitic manoeuvres. She crosses her legs, blue smooth jean thighs that give me lustful wants; she folds her arms across her breasts and sits indestructible; I could smite her with a quick head brick.
Have you ever walked alone in sodden clothes past a half busy late night café easy from the rain? It is the same concept as the vacant shop space but reversed, the shop looks out into the world, the place of its once custom, and only by looking out can it sense its own inadequacies. So by looking into a café at night, you see the warmth inside and sense your own loneliness, almost a companion in itself. I have become an abandoned shop front, I watch the crimson, half cloud, darkening feathery somethinsg that make up a un-word-able sky; I am cold but do not show it, she is cold but does not ask for my coat. On occasion this sensation of nonentity develops inside, and I become too weary for words, because conversations can be clumsy lumbering monstrous things, like clambering up an endless ladder, there comes a point when you must cease, prevent movement, decrease your hopeful gripping, or else your marshmallow muscles will be squashed and bent into some wrathful deformity, and you'll fall to a disastrous collision. Sometimes that is the nature of conversations, they become endless exercises to nowhere and the very stamina of your beating heart is beaten in that instance.
You have eyes to see, but see only vague grey shapes; the ghosts I see, are the same ghostly images the sky holds in its thin watery talons, spasm wind and a sunken stomach heart. You have ears to ear, but never seem to catch the beginning of somebody's speech; it is an immaculate numbness of sensations. Yet the mind is still generating thoughts of sombre reminiscence, it is akin to a deep dreaming. The body can neither respond to laughter, neither asking nor giving, but the mind is creating fantasies of odourless places and colourless personages. The only victim is the person sat with or stood next to you, they have committed no crime, and only proximity would have them notice you at all. For if you feel cheerless, those that go by you in the street can not know you are gloomy, they do not know, but if you sit in a quite space with a familiar, they may not be the reason for you sadness but they can suffer a aching melancholy and almost always hold themselves responsible. I have noticed, possibly of late we both have been less passionate yet more perceptive to the others needs as a creature of responsive skin and tenderness. I hear Billy Holiday songs, the theme tune to swift romances; her sad loneliness, her melancholy shall be mine. I become to eagerly poignant discussing myself as she turns chill maroon face, nose of copper cold and eyes dull with tired expressionless.
-Do you not prefer to speak to me? Tired capitulation.
-I do not know, all I know is it is far better this way.
-As we are now? Incredulous screeching.
-No, as we were when watching the Harris Hawks, as we were then!
I should say "No, like we could be; remember I resting on your lap, in our warm embraces and smiling faces; without arguments and confusion, without reserved heartless austerity, awful talking and no holding. Yes I must tell you from my heart; this as we are now; I do not like it Nobody says these thins I know, not unless you feel comfortable in some gentle kiss, when alone, to whisper your thinking, and worries. She smiles empty, and I glace back into the spilt water colour vista; I can scent wooded smoke, a chimney down the hill coughs out a thin delicate waning cushion of translucent vapour. I want to be alone, inside that cottage, beside that fire.
-You seem always on the verge of telling me your mind (She pauses and shuffles toward me, I slip away I do not know why) you are never able to formulate the appropriate words, you think me better in your head (She may be sobbing; I adore cottage fires in winter) always attempting to arrive at some end, but more often than not, always seeming to end up in a lonely place not planned, don't hurt me with silence! Pitiful logical pleading; if I had a cottage I should write a thousand poems.
I can sense an awkward nervousness about her, too defeated, and deliberately engaged, too afraid to linger in quietude. I should tell her I did not sleep well at all last night, and when I did dose, I had a nightmare, so at around 5:am I went for an early morning stroll to the common, ghost streets, half uttered whispers of civilisation, the streets at that time in the morning always seem to suggest someone has died, but no one is supposed to know, murky dawn streets are like a newly dug graveyard waiting sadly for the first bodies to arrive, and fill the chasms, rot in its deep soulful misery, more and more. She un crosses her legs and unfolds her harms, bringing out a mobile phone with plump shivery fingers;
-I have to go soon.
But onward to the common I should say; past night weary cats, purring there sticky fur upon walls, but the common is green and patient, there were horses nibbling in the gloom, scary shadows but I being terribly brave, walked on. Thinking, praying, humming for do you not feel inhumane when you make noise, if I did not sneeze occasionally I should forget about myself entirely. I ambled in the dewy grass, which soaked my socks through the hole in my shoe, but up to the top of the hillside I clambered and sat on a small tuft of earth, I felt strangely warm and welcome amongst bird song and cautious rabbits dancing their way from burrow to delicious sweet treats. I became rather hushed, all saffron meditation and no sneezes! This town is like an old vicars bed sheet, rumpled in the air, and left to slowly settle, I could see power plants in the distance, big murky grey awesome factories of smog! Around 7'sh the sun really began to shine some, I wish you were with me. I know I should say these things as she packs her few belongings together in her new bag; it was so glorious, two of the horses lay down in the haze of sunny grass, with all manner of flies and dust particles being set ablaze by the sun, and I lie not, when I say a little mischievous bird tried to land on one of the horses backs, but she flicked her hair at him, and there were mauve flowers, and white little dandy things, swaying buttercups, all manner of mysterious flowerings, in the silence, no dogs nor cars, just those two nibbling horses; and myself watching, legs crossed and my brown cardigan wrapped about me, I saw rabbits and a squirrel, may have been a cat though, but I remained hushed with my back to the rising sun, it confirmed the existence of some kind of Jehovah, I saw Eden this morning. I should grab her by the shoulders, glare into her frosty face and yell it! I saw Eden in the first light, I could picture Adam awaking, blessing his creator, then strolling out amongst the tree's to find his wife, where had she gone? I could imagine that, I could almost see Adam down below amongst the thick patches of purple 'bakers belly' how solemn Jehovah must have been, brooding his great galactic heart away, and there was I, smelling the buds of rosemary and 'vicars wart', rich grassy aroma's thick with lust and pleasures, for the first time in a long while, I was not worrying about the summer, or the war. Because the day was beautiful, it is the finest way to be alone, contemplative and tranquil. I would gladly sacrifice every night sleeplessly, if all mornings were so wonderful, immaculate nature, I wish you could have been there, to kiss me, and for me to grasp you, press against you, surrender cardigan to you, but most of all just to appreciate the magic serenity of the scene with someone. I should say all this but do not ' she glares solemnly, yearning and helplessly in someone's direction and only later did it occur to me, that it was mine.
-I have to go now; what are you doing?
-Did I tell you about the handsome horses in the sun?
-What! What are you blabbering about? Angry cold lover, I'll never find another, these days.
-Oh, I swear I told you; because I think you are missing the point!
-No, you are the missing the point, goodbye! Stomping feet over icicled crackling stinging nettles, a lurking willowy sky she passed they were either sobs or the splutters from passing dying motorcycles; if I had a motorcycle I would crash land into history with a smiling eyeball in the palm of my sweaty hand.
