Armchair Philosophies

Some time ago

you fell.

Fell,

From so

high up, that 

the ground (which

was never particularly

friendly, even to begin with)

forced a tiny, tiny, hairline fracture

to appear on the surface of your skin.

Since then, you have been fragile.

So delicate, that all my soft

touches, and unheard

breaths, that I

mistakenly

let fall

on 

you,

left more

microscopic

cracks and lines.

You tried to hide the

marks that they made on

your face and neck and body,

because you thought that they were 

ugly. Disfiguring. Shameful and void of

beauty. But, unbeknownst to you, darkly and

secretly, these cracks were joining from

the inside. Knitting together, but not

with new skin, or new you, or old 

you, even. Stitching them

together, was some

thing, some

wondrous

golden

thing,

that

only

made

you

better.

I screamed that night

and they came running. 

One solitary sound brings company.

He told me I was ‘precious’

and I promised to remember.

Such a fragile word, it sounds as if

it might break.

I almost told her 

‘I just broke’

but recognised the mistake in time.

My impossible optimism 

came from the dark

and scared me, 

so that I caught my breath.

And only now does my

eloquence come

streaming through fingertips

and screaming through screens.

Caught in strands of time

linking past and future,

and I’m not strong enough 

to cut the ties.

She called me brave,

to be facing down confusion,

and told me that

‘somewhere in the murkiness

there’s you’.

And I can’t tear my eyes away,

from those red flashing lights,

even though

there’s a full moon tonight,

and my hands are tied with vetch.

For a long time now,

My lungs have been filled

with dandelions.

And for a long time now, 

I’ve been drinking the Atlantic,

trying to swim to you.

But the ocean’s broken through my chest,

and the dandelion’s flowers 

have floated from my mouth.

They’ve cracked up the sounds

that I normally call words

and now there’s only grabs of noise,

the noise you hear when a car drives past.

or walking at night

past people’s homes

with the television on. 

Fragments of my life, 

disintegrated in splashes of sound.

The pieces that refuse any coherence,

and call to mind the old Czechoslovakian man,

who taught me

the most important thing

was to stop making chaos. 

Does anyone ever?

I do it so well,

why stop now?

Until the words I need 

find me amongst the white caps

on the soundsea’s horizon,

I’ll just try to keep my ears

above the water.

I don’t care how long I wait.

So hungry-hearted solider

you’ve taken back your watch,

and now the blood is yours. 

Time was slow, but he’s found his legs,

and comes quickly up behind.

Rip Van Winkle woke from dreaming

and no-one knows his name,

but somewhere Faithful John is forging

fresh bands of iron,

that can only try to hold this sentinel

together.

Fear is faster still than the ticking clock,

I know it speeds up heartbeats,

and I’m sure the sand in the hourglass

was never quite this slippery.

Hungry-hearted soldier,

my legs want to run

against the sand,

against time’s incoming tide.

But for you,

I’ll lay my watch beside me,

lie with you,

and soak myself in holy sapience. 

The heart’s heart whispered 

a secret,

almost too quietly to be heard. 

But not quite.

It was heard

by the heart,

who told it to the blood,

who sung it down 

each blood vessel. 

And when it had finished 

telling the fingers and toes,

it rushed it to the lungs,

who caught it up in 

soft clouds of vapor breath,

and lifted it to the mouth,

lips, tongue and teeth.

But the mouth was not yet ready,

and the tongue couldn’t hear

what had to be said.

So I told you something 

completely different,

instead. 

Sunken teeth

and ancient words

caught in loops 

and curls of time. 

Some moments

evade the Old Man’s

brambles,

and emerge,

sucking hard

on the clocks

second

hand.

The same

second hand

that falls

to bring on the nightmare minute.

The nightmare minute

that caught in the throat 

at the first taste

of unasked-for knowledge.

Heart’s murmur 

turned the blood to tar,

tar turned the veins to fire,

fire turned the limbs to ash,

and from ash,

there was no more. 

Never enough time,

never enough,

to find the cracks

in memory,

and pour those

recollections through. 

Make do with 

accidental fissures

and leave 

what you can

behind.

Nothing’s set,

and the sound wave?

It’s rolled on.

So the ripples

that caught

in the Old Man’s 

brambles,

we can only hope,

they too

roll on

in time.

Take me in, take me over

take me anywhere but here.

Take the thorns

and make me roses,

take the ashes 

and make me colours.

Take the blood, the marrow,

and the bone,

take it all and make me something new.

Take the rocky bones of history,

and grind them into dust,

make me something beautiful

from what could not withstand

time’s eroding love. 

Find me the diamonds in the pavement,

the gold in the heart,

the silver in the lining,

find me anything

to stop up the mouths

that open in my heart.

Small kin’s lacuna’s gone

Small kin has lost her silence.

Take those fumbling paws

to the shore line, little beast.

The sun told me he left his caesuras there.

Or follow the wandering trail left by ants

to the darkened forest,

they stole the Amyclaean’s silence

with tiny teeth.

Fate’s not for cowards

so lock those fears away. 

Tuck in your shirt

and pull up your socks,

let’s face this leviathan neatly.

Breathe in,

and pull open the doors

with hands that have cold feet.

Cover your ears

it will be loud,

(silence always is)

and let the roar wash over you.

And when you feel that these insufficient ribs may break,

and the taste of blood grows stale,

or maybe simply that 

your thunder must now whisper,

push the heavy doors to,

with morning’s weakness.

Don’t close them tight though,

you should remember

that despite the silence

they’re always there.