PouringOutTheSun

Ireland

“In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.” -Madeline Miller, “The Song Of Achilles.”

#blacklivesmatter

Message to Readers

Hey!! This doesn’t even make sense to me!!

A Flash of Colour & You’ve Got Words

April 13, 2019

FREE WRITING

2



The glowing eyes with their glowing pride and their dull love is wholly inconceivable and a little bit sharp at the edges and round everywhere else and it tastes like stone in your mouth but it feels like awakening? Like a feather stuck to the edge of your consciousness, a soft reminder wrapped up in the haze of your dreams.

You’d race a planet to the end of it’s days for a hug from the sky and you would scream at a god again, in that inexorable way of yours and you would tear this fabric of a life to the ground if it only meant he stood again, and he made the whole world smell like the copper of his skin and the winter of his mouth and hair again.

A star inside your ribcage and the light reaches through the slats of your bones like it’s trying to escape from the pitiful cage that is you. You’ve tied it close, tethered it to you and it’s found between the mess of your arteries and veins and other mangled blood vessels and really, did nobody tell you? Stars do not exist here, they all sputtered and died long ago.

Like the girl who said she would take them all from the night sky for you.

Do you know of coincidences? This girl would have dripped into the word if I had believed in them.

Some match in the fabric of time and suddenly everyone is beaming with some measure of unforced certainty that “oh what a coincidence you should be here too!” or “oh, what a dreadful coincidence the store is out of milk as well!”

Do you ever think about the word coincidence? Co-in-ci-dence. To happen along side, to be with, and maybe it was a coincidence that I was born when the world too was born and yet I still don’t remember proper stars. I can’t seem to recall that tapestry the old ones used to string across the sky because maybe I am not sure the old ones ever existed. Perhaps it is in the same way I have not been sure of tapestries since the Bayeux one.

I have seen so many things living on the edge of lightning strikes and mustn’t they be angels if they’ve come from the sky? Is that not the untouchable rule of the golden and good? And yet they smell so much like ozone and their mouths are so stretched with these smiles, these smiles that are saccharine but also like rust. Where is the brown dirt colour sneaking up the side of them? Has it been washed off in the clouds they’ve commandeered?Why do I have so many questions about words such as coincidence & less than good things such as rust. Have I lost my way already? It’s only been a millennium, time to grit my teeth & remember.

Your wings are still wet from stepping out of the wet of the earth & the drops, they do not fall from the ends of you, until they’ve gathered and sparkled against the endless sky that you are not allowed to touch and I’ve heard people call you divine and possibly born from the pit of inspiration in some god’s stomach but you have moved too far away and now you’ve got golden streaked knees & a water logged head and hair that tastes nothing like salt but still like the sea.

I’d run my hands across your skin but I wouldn’t want to stop. And my hands are bloody & much too dirty for your sweetness and maybe I should just get rid of my hands, cut my problem off at it’s rotting roots and write a poem about it for attention.

Would you like a poem, my midnight sun? My moon-darkened boy, my stained glass beauty. Would you like a few words stretched out and put together with my starless brain and comet ridden eyes?  Speaking of comets I’ve always said I’d catch the tail of one for you. They’re just so fast nowadays and I fear I am getting slower.

I’m at this low point at the bottom of the threshold of the world, and the music is as slow as those icy rivers you so loved to trace across the earth. I’ve fallen through countless cave systems and pretended they were space but maybe I should take a different approach, do it the other way around. Dream of caves in space because the first angels wiped blood from their hands when they scraped it against the rock of the earth. The first angels did not fist their hands through the folds of galaxies. They fisted it through the moss as they dragged themselves into the light.

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