THE END: A Letter To My Muse

One day I should like to stare long enough into your eyeballs just to be able to see where the shade of your pupils seep deep into the black-brown iris. Just to know your eyes are real — they looked so vacant. It’s not an accusation, insult or threat. I would have liked to believe you could be rid of all of what you suffer behind there. Make a decision: don’t fall back on the usual just because it/she (you know who I mean) tolerates you. Take it from someone who knows. Many other suckers are willing to save a sad soul, just ignore those — they’re the nutters! I peeked at some photos of you overseas, oh how I would have loved to hear you tell me about those BIG MACHINES on the dance floor, and another photo of you striking a pose of years later, you looked like such a dork! Well, what! You said I looked like a witch and I like to think over this, we can laugh. You were a great Muse never too affected except when you lost the plot thinking I was so attracted. In the words of The Land of Talk, “I love you like I love you, then I’ll die.”

Here are your lines: “I relate, kid, but i’m the one who wants to let you wonder.”

Blight

Wonder not, you probably are shouting: ‘make no mistake there is no love here, muppet.’ I know this, and always did. My disappointment was from the estrangement you exude while inches away from my face. I was your friend. I cared for you as I would care for a special human and excused your wild ways, encouraged your vulnerabilities. I should like to stare long enough into your eyeballs just to be able to see their colour, and not tremble with fear that you’ll open your mouth and utter some cruel word, and make me vomit, yes — you’ve a very sharp tongue. But it’s not that I did not like you very much, it’s that I care for myself more and my body retracted too harshly in your presence and your explosions. You know I talk tough, my love, I’m a lightweight and I’ve morals. I’m a flower who needs nourishment not a blight upon my stock. No, I don’t wish for a trophy for my capacity for enduring this; my life was full of battles. No, I’m not weak in not being able to handle this; I just think connections needn’t be so scary. If ever you felt strange we got personal, look what has happened here! My memories of you plastered for all the world to see, and yet — you are still safe as can be. For this is a lot of projection and nuancing in heroic poetry. I might have slightly different things to say in person, which you will never know. No one will know who you are those that do, do with selective hearing and reading, typically usually cringing.

But everyone knows not to touch this, nor say anything more of what happened here.

Every single morning when I wake up, that night and morning are in my head. I try to piece together details of things, but it’s rather a blur, instead. I can’t put together what you wrote versus the reality I felt on my skin. I have no idea if you were angry with the rickshaw man, if you beat his head in. What colour were the doorman’s pyjamas? Do you know if they’ll let me back into the Jesmond? No way I’m staying in Room #7. What were you doing there? I heard a song once, “when the morning comes, you better not tell a soul / harder than it looks but cheaper than a taxi home.” There are so many cabs along Gower.

Blight hit me in the ribcage, stung me to my core. After two visits with you, I could not stand it anymore. The third visit was the crux and changed it all for evermore. Did you notice you had to say things twice, did you think you were ignored? “After this beer, I’m leaving, did you hear?” “I can take you to a good Japanese place” and “Watch my coat, got it – watch it” and many more. Hey, if you’re a sociopath I guess I’m Helen Keller. I didn’t see properly, I don’t think: and I certainly didn’t listen to anything! That, my dear Muse, to set the geography is a meeting of two streets:

Reality Street runs north to the head and Fantasy south to the soul.

My Muse, I am slow. I needed time to map my familiarity with your layout in my head with the reality of your spaces in the flesh. Even when we made love, I caught your eyes maybe twice? I was lost in foreign territory despite walking the grounds daily in my mind, for 18 months. But it’s settled then because not only was this not a poet’s obsession, it was an artistic preoccupation (that sounds better). For if I was obsessed and deluded, I would have been feuding with you to be what I thought you were. But while I found you exhaustive, perhaps you were nervous, mostly I thought you sad and upon returning to bed that first evening in London, England, I stopped myself dead in my tracks and said: “Wow. I would wish to know this man forever.” I knew exactly what/who I was dealing with. The question will always be: Did you?

If yes, and you had answered the Code Red, (and what is up with that mirrored reflection coincidence!) I forgive all and everything that happened. If no, “what the fuck Code Red are you talking about?” then, piss off, you’re an old man, you should have known better!

On my way to work the other day, I saw a man with a scarf up to his chin. I beamed, my eyes wide, thought I recognized … and a big, big smile, I almost shouted: “Hey, Glyn!” Y, one ‘n.’ It wasn’t him…

With all my love and fuck I paid too much for that orange dinner (was I financing a fucking date you were on?), maybe we will find our way back to one another over tea in London in person in 2015 or New York City or in the British Part of Canada perhaps sooner or later or never again…

forever,

– Sylvie

PS: you’re a dick.

**********

Art: dixon / “Blight” / 88x27cm / spray paint and acrylic on metal / 2013 (painting for FallDownGallery)

LADY WAS A LADY LAID TO REST

With one hand on her heart
the other reached out
she’s made beautiful on a sardine can
that otherwise would be thrown out.
Someone’s scraps are another’s treasures
and you and me were like garbage pickers
just trotting about, scouting, lifting
for ourselves, and often for the other.
Muse: I’m sorry to throw you out like this
but you treated me like discarded rubbish.
Lady, is that lady dead
or for now, just sleeping?

SH 2014