Sylvie Hill

It’s settled then.

All the electricity floating around parts of this body
Sucked into a heaviness by a magnetic reality.
All the unbearable lightness of thoughts, feelings flowing
Now are condensed into a perfectly shaped: knowing.

From America at 2:52 am, years after pouring beer on a post-gig dinner
Came the wisdom of a travelling musician friend as he sipped tequila in winter
He told me he slept with women because he was craving tenderness
And it was about seeing how a girl lives, her dresses, not just rocking a mattress.

He said in short it was about ‘abandon.’
Who is the puppet, who plays the strings beyond the guitar with the band, then?

That part of my heart that I tell you swelled when the UK Other answered Code Red
And retracted in recoil when he insulted me dead
That part that blossomed, opened up like a flower
Was warming, expanding, calming and washing over me like …

abandon.

Like a magnet that sucked together all the metallic filings of my synapses
It sucked from every part of me thoughts, feelings, impressions of him.
It freed up my veins to absorb other energy
It cleared my mind giving sense to the reality of …

abandon.

I had been so focused on his loveless act for which he showed zero tenderness
That I was blind to explaining to anyone around me how impossible it was to resist.
My mind knew he was a dick, my heart wanted to be his friend.
In the night it was full-on abandon, yes …

He said in short it was about ‘abandon.’
Who is the puppet, who plays the strings beyond the guitar with the band, then?

I wake up every morning, my brain replaying the scene
I remember unflattering snippets but mostly not much of anything
He’s been inside so many more women after this
But he’s the last one to touch these lips.

I got lost in London, he brought me home
I was not abandoned, but I was alone
I was tied to a sinking ship
I signed on for this trip
And like sunken treasure amassed at bottom of the sea
The pieces have settled in me.
And finally I feel treasured, free.

That’s because I know now:
There are men who fuck because of a hard on (Him).
Then men who make love for abandon (sorry, Keith).
The former are soulless selfish cunts who will roam from one to one: watch them!
The latter are soulful sharing gents who pass through with hippy love to grant a traveller and themselves:

abandon.

He said in short it was about ‘abandon.’
Who is the puppet, who plays the strings beyond the guitar with the band, then?

It’s settled then.
Goodbye to my Muse who treats people like refuse (read: garbage).
And to a new man, one day, I’ll say, after the band has played …

“Let’s get outta here,
wanna get … lost?”

Is it better to be lost in love
Or loving the Lost in abandon?

I was the latter and proud of it
Did my tenderness soften his cartilage?

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon by Juan Carlos Noria / “Tempest” / 100x100cm / spray paint and synthetic enamel on canvas / 2010