"You’re not very good."
"No."
"Will you return?"
Life, Pussy, remember? You came home looking tired, delicate, slightly out of this world, but so beautiful. Your hair was lank, your skin the colour and transparency of alabaster, but so beautiful. You had last showered on the morning of the day before. I knew I would taste the original you, The Pretty Girl.
Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who cared for conversation?
Later on, my arm across the small of your back, yours across the small of mine, my fingertips caressed your right hip gently through the satin of your slip, yours caressed silky skin, for there was no satin there to be felt.
Outside, the seven thirty five morning moon sinks westerly over the rooftops, sweeps into its westerly swoon. The moon, the colour of the winter flesh between your legs, so beautiful.
Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who had cared for conversation? Then you spoke.
"You’re not very good."
"No."
"Will you return?"
Then I awoke and in a flitter we were gone, you somewhere far, far away to the East on a sandy summer coastline, drinks with young friends, easy laughter and conversation, sun, the sea lapping up to you, Pandora’s amphora, and me, gone, of course, as always, into timeless reveries of lost love lust and life, the little deaths of ourselves together, but so beautiful.
Far away to the East, please, you might just be feeling a little longing for me, looking at what I’m looking at at this very moment in time, or perhaps, even, from another world, from another time altogether. We travel in time!
TERRESTRIAL/ETHERIAL TRIANGULATION
A vacuous evening calls into question
the Terminator over Agatharchides
which adds contours and perspective
The Rays of Aristillus tell me
distance between points must be rescaled
Clouds outside cutting between this point here
and the final leg far away to the East
bring our time to mind
Every other terrestrial point is another criminal
stealing our scale
The moon
the colour of the winter flesh between your legs
its proximity has induced my mind to
this line of thought
"You’re not very good."
"No."
"Will you return?"
With every thought of fleeting life there comes a thought of lingering death, the death of us together. Oh my darling leopard, there is too much unwanted invention battling in my head to leave emptiness enough to remember it all, to remember the moon the colour of the winter flesh between your legs, for, modestly, you were never one to go completely naked into the summer sun.
Death is dithering on our dark doorstep.
Too late, oh far faded leopard
for slow death hath fast overtaken
thine capacity for speedy decision
I nurse you.
Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who had cared for conversation? Then you spoke unto him.
"You’re not very good."
"No."
"Will you return?"
