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The Midnights

here the music burst open like so many flowers or only echoed in the hollow space he moved in graceful steps or only shifts his eyes from the light of screens in the onyx dark the ring was shining, a smile or was twisted tight, a noose he looks to the bookcases; a curation or expanse of bone white trees here he sings here he drowns in the sentiment here we buckle but forbid the breaking the song plays on the same or fades into the middle distance as he closes the door

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“...angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...”

Here among plaid paladins seeking out some truth in twilight hours filled with exhaust fume, cigarette smoke and clamour of wind, of driven rain against pavement and brick wall Echoing alleyway kingdoms that we own for this - for clarity of purpose to be pursued along each side street and out to the wide vista of river stop. Just to breathe in the water, breathe in the salt and the birdsong and the radio waves aching from so many car stereos as we, in our vanity, pour over each other’s bodies with wonder and inquisition as if searching for an answer to our loneliness in this moment.

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Ballagairaidh

There is a part of you that remembers Eden – a myriad of tree and meadow and briar. And we learn that we, unworthy, were cast out; the discordant note in her aria. That Eden was no longer ours. Except.. that is backward. Eden held us in its embrace until we pushed through; until we, full of iron and stone and ill confidence broke the branches of her trees – burned right through the heart of her until we'd stripped the last note from the page. Eden fell away from us and in doing so we forgot; In the beginning, there was everything

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Fragrance of Dark Coffee

There is a man and he is sat at the window thinking about the night and how the night itself is thinking about love. They are both sat stagnant and gazing at each other; one with a million, million eyes. The man smokes a cheap cigarette as a red candle burns slowly to the base of the holder. The night is cold in its observation – how it watches the man who watches each passing car, each tensed-up person half-running to escape the rain. He breathes out a plume of smoke that the night could imagine were clouds. Clouds alike its clouds that move so aimlessly, as if lost. The man plays some jazz from a second-hand radio and sets down at his desk, replacing cigarette with pen; trying to craft some new phrase about how the night is his mother out at sea. The night yawns into the wind as it lulls itself to sleep.

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Station

The radio aches a little tune to tell us what the night is thinking. It is thinking about love. It is thinking about a lost highway and a full tank of gas. It is thinking of a boy… and another boy… and another boy… it is thinking of a poppy-red wetness of a stone after it embraces a skull. It is a man, burning a third of all his pictures. He carves her name into the top of a coffee table he means to break.

It is a round of good whiskey drunk from a coffin lid. It is a beach bonfire and skinny dipping at midnight. It is a secret kiss in the moonlight. A last goodbye. A lost minute. A thousand, thousand moments kept locked in the vault of this body.

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Note from a Boy's Journal III

Another man. Another night of pens scratching across paper, describing how they move inside boy – the mechanics of it. They are making lust to boy while he draws the blueprints of it and so this continues;

Pay. Fuck. Leave. Repeat.

All the while papers press together in Boy’s mind – overflow of schematics.

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Notes from a Boy's Journal II

Boy’s parents begin to notice things – the newness of him; new clothes, phone, gadgets, et cet. New Boy.

Boy makes a new note, titled ‘Warning’ – I am bushel of thorns; touch and you will bleed. I’m only here to hurt you now.

Boy’s mother is crying with cuts on her arms. Boy’s father cradles a bloody fist.

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Slut

Dark dense of poplars propped up by cinder block.

Chipped render flaking onto school jumper

as he leads;

pushes you down to your knees - into the mulch.

A boy takes you because he can and because you won’t tell;

he takes you and pushes

you down to take him in your mouth.

“Slut” he calls you when he’s done. When he leaves you kneel

and wonder;

“Maybe I am”

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Note from a Boy's Journal

Sixteen.

Now sweetness. Just another night on street corner. The soul nearly beaten out of him. It goes like this;

Boy wakes hurting from the night before. Barely eats before washing. Puts on the nearest clean pair of jeans and another cheap tank top before taking to the stage. Notes pile up, half-finished, while more line his pockets.

The pain is guilt. The echo of a lesson half-forgotten. Boy makes an edit.

The pain is judgement. The pain is judgement.

Another car stops for him.

Time to be judged again.

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And in this room, curlicues of smoke as a gallery, we speak around the matter. Half-yellowed words fall out of our mouths and hover in the middle distance between us among the dust and the deadness of the air. You know his form but his name blurs into the weave of the carpet. Mine hides from you behind a net curtain. We, us three, kept here as we watch the particles of sand slip away from your structure until it no longer represents a mother. Just a hollow - memory hazing in the middle distance.

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Here among bluebell and bullgrass we link hands again. This forest becomes a ceremony room and we are walking an aisle between ancient trees, lapping of a brook as applause for us and that smile. Oh, how I could drown in it. Eyes locked as my hand cups your chin. The kiss; sweetness of flowers again. Become butterfly, drinking the nectar of you.

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Would it have mattered if I had bent, bowed my body for you the way a willow warps itself into the shaped decided by the wind? Would it have been enough if I, silent? Would it have been preferred if ignorance held me closer to hide the bliss you found in her? Would it have meant your shape remaining? And if so, what then? Would this litany of changes have ever caused you to pause at the door before leaving?

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The way in which you hold my gaze as you cut into a mango; guiding with the thumb until the blade bites, peels back enough for you to bite into the flesh of it, held with perfect pressure as the juice of it bleeds down your chin. Bleeds down your wrist and oh, how I long to to lick a path back up to the knife and kiss the steel as you feast on what was offered.

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I, awake. I, in fits. I,

breathing in the breaking of this

moment; bruise born out of

loving like a war - his hands, his hands

again looming and I, lamb. I,

inviting. I, close to the impact and knowing

that this symphony of bone is just

overture; is the curtain, is the way we

play our parts and so I, willing, take

your bloodied fists and kiss my blood from it.

I, on puppet string - take you to the bathroom

to wash the evidence; to drown myself

and I, turning away. Turning towards.

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There is only this peace lodged in the witching hours - the window cold enough to leave its mark on your skin and finally, finally you can breathe again; forgetting the span of his hands encircling the sharp jut of your hip. The two day stubble scouring your neck. The scent of old cigarettes, of mint, of cheap cologne. The way your name sounded dead on his tongue and so you transform; become Scheherezade. Tell him stories with your body if only to keep yourself present and remembered.

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Here, last vestige of tobacco. Perching in window sill and desperate for the air. Here, burnt out candle, lingering scent of black cherry - sweet, heavy. A hand resting carefully at my throat. Here, here, the empty cologne - ghost of you carried through the dust.

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And oh, to take back the moment; to remove the words spoken from the vault of this mouth and burn them for heat. To kiss them into the earth, with a little rain of us and burst through the skin of it with new growth. But here we are, in the weeds instead and watching them choke what could have been out of your throat as you turn towards the door.

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