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- Jé Maverick
I Can’t See The World
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byMonday, September 28, 2020Because you exist, I cannot see the world. You leap from lilacs, and tambourines, and bubble in the eddying waters. You plucked me from the stalk of a limp night, and because you exist I am suffocated by your name. I can’t see the world for the clutch you gave, or the fierce wind of your gasp. Your hands and their magic tricks; the stabbing light of your eyes. You jump from canyons, and you grow in the orchards, only to rise from the shadows of billboards and churchyards. Leaves tremble with the ever-floating note of your sung farewell. Somewhere else, you are being loved. Somewhere else. I am suffocated by your name. Because you exist I can’t see the world, or the lost coast of my homeland: the map of your body, pulsing with the beacon of a signalled misery. A mad voyager, I search for your hot imprint on the rock of each molten day.
byFriday, September 25, 2020I have met a lovely and shapely girl in the countryside who was accompanying her parents on a “constitutional holiday” rather than a vacation (at least, that’s how they termed it). Grete (that’s her name) told me that they had decided to get out of their hometown for a day due to the recent passing of her brother, Gregor (after a long illness, some wretched bug took him), but had decided to stay for a week longer. Her parents seemed quite a bit odd, and kept pointing out that Grete is such “a lovely and shapely girl”, and that her change from a wan, thin waif to a lovely and shapely girl had taken place while they had all been focusing on her ill brother. It seems that she underwent quite a metamorphosis in that period, and though she has odd parents (who are obviously trying to marry her off), she’s quite vivacious, is witty in conversation, and has a certain compelling joie de vivre. I kept having the thought that her name wasn’t right, and I think I may have even blurted out “Gretel” accidentally, just to hear myself account for the missing “L”. Lol. First impressions are often […]
byWednesday, September 23, 2020They will come, the sorrows with their brutalities and humiliations, their executioner’s masks; their shrill and baying mobs. They will nestle in the continuum of time, immovable, become part of the world that spins and all of the scars on all of the skins will flare with the knots of their history, with an honest and gnashing recursion. Yet the words and the time to come, the future that is roaring and the seeds and the bloomings and the orchestras of surprise and wonder and love, shall these be folded and left aside for the sheernesses and loomings that will be given to the sorrows? Can you be sure how much love is left in the calendar of days remaining? How many dawns will hold their names like blessings on your lips; how many nights will the moon bear witness to your tributes and your treasures and your ecstasies? Shall your words thread traumas through each square inch of time, a tapestry of hoaxes woven to the detriment of life, a rug of wounds for the barefoot and motionless? Or shall your words be hoisted flags that catch and sing the wind and the sun and the eternal season that […]
byTuesday, September 22, 2020It’s more than a perception, if anything it’s a rift, torn open by the actions of all who have occupied spaces before us. A leper squatted here, mute with the impediment of stigma, no longer seen as any parts human but all parts disease; a king lay there, drunk with the pleasures of a thousand concubines, tormented by those of his court who lust for thrones; here’s the place a suicide had her final deep blue pulse of thought: the earth was touched by each one, time and space covered them equally with touch, memorised their delicious bodies and filled itself with the intentions of their spirit. Don’t say you haven’t felt the pull, on some lonely, rambling walk upon a trail, or some anxious rush down a dark sidestreet, or entering an unfamiliar building – the presence of the things that came before – you walked through a centuries old murder scene on Sunset Boulevard; you slept upon a birthplace in a hotel in the 17th arrondissement; in Marrakesh you stepped upon the hallowed spot that a broken-hearted lover spilled tears of a grief born to secrecy. Here was a battle; there was a man stung to death by […]