Arrival

14 May, 2010 at 12:23 (Uncategorized)

Here I am and Here was where I was allowed
to truly arrive.
Is it any wonder I don’t want to leave…
and am I faking things?
is it just for want of a ring?
But I’m still me, and I can’t quite bring myself
to buy into it all.

Here is where I am and Here was where
I truly arrive.
They let me out of my box, can you hear the dogs barking?
Can you hear them in the street?
Over all the scraps
of poetry written
some woman years ago, they let her out of her box
Or did we both, all, every single one of us
realise
that Here
was where we could
truly arrive.

If I am Here…then where, is my recognition?
Two and a half thousand years in the making
but I am born of a fifteen minute attention span
and I am Here
Now.
Where is my recognition? I’m looking a little tired these days
and
every single slut is singing
because we know what it is to
write poetry on bloody sheets of sweat

right here

right now

in front of you and I keep singing
Here is where I allowed myself to truly arrive
in the City on the River, in the City by the Sea
and I pulse when I think of her islands
and I pulse when
I have forgotten and he remembered.

Who knows what I meant,
but Wittgenstein makes me think of you.
(An English plural will have to serve, observe)
For you, an apple orchard will do,
You get the fairy steps
and you the early morning when you quite forgot…
scraps of poetry
written in a body
where is my recognition?
I’m looking a little tired these days
forgotten half of what I’ve written
and when I am so old, that no one could look at me
and hear the dog barking in the street
or wish they were a nose to gain my scent
then you will rule my mind
picked out in pathways of tiny sparks
in the City on the River, David’s Town by the Sea.

A long time ago in the making,
we are coming into our own,
we and I and you and both and every single one of us
because the children are upstairs
and the gas oven’s on
so get it over with and you can come and play
but everyone needs…
to be in the gang of awkward boys surrounding your light
I’m writing this because I know you used to read them
I’m diving, praying you’re still watching
because once I start then
I can’t stop
and the sluts have written
we keep on writing
poetry on sweat-stained sheets
the twenty-first century is mine
I’m still on time
and it was never
for want of a ring.

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