“…what a height my spirit is contending!/’Tis not content so soon to be alone.”
That belltower of ours was hurling out its eighth chime when we crept shoeless into the morning. Last night’s storm pulsed weary in the sky;
and the silence was spotless –
so we ruined it.
Ghosts walk this violet-steeped street, circle this tower, shadows
of a past I can’t bring myself to see. It won’t be long, of course, before those flanking leaves are curling and dark, these stones
shimmered and crisp with frost,
and this morning
another memory.
A glistening trace of fever still clung to the sky. That too I’m sure is gone, burned away by the April sun; and yet it was so quiet
I had to wonder
if we’d not mistakenly walked in on a dream. As though it were the easiest thing to lie on this pavement and fade into rich
fucking
oblivion
I was so tired
Then again, hangovers don’t generally split one’s head in dreams; nor do bruises generally ache between one’s –
Nonetheless, we were less
solid as we came to the turning.
Somehow the prospect of home, its insufferable rush of humanity, was far too tangible for the present hour, however quiet the streets would likely be. Before long, I would drag my thoughts back to train tickets and laundry and coffee-pots
such stuff as small talk’s made on,
and you’d don again your eye-rolls and filial laments; but for the moment the mundanity of it all appeared
as good as death, and so for now,
the path erased itself as we walked. With care I fade into this chaos,
breathing these rustling branches, this opalite sky, these last tripping bars of this town
our town
so soon torn away –
How beautiful emptiness was, and how delicate. Oh God –
if only we remained to wander among the stubborn shop fronts, perhaps it would never quite shatter;
perhaps we could loiter in this great weighted after,
linger, our fingers hooked into the place which was not quite Saturday morning
this glassy after. But of course, already it was cracking,
for voices were whispering, scrabbling south to us, slippery, subtle, stubbornly screaming –
there is no us without this city. Oxford is ours
and remains in our debt
it clenches its marble claws round our necks –
and the blood they draw is sweet. Here we learned to love our home; here we forgot
our native shitholes (sometimes)
but still I grew to loathe that city
bereft of a town, I long
for streets you don’t know. Here I watched indifferently as the spirit starved within me, and grew emaciated
with living too much.
A great fiery gust of wind whipped through the trees and came scraping
and surging
and stirring my heart, and here still it rots away that feeble lock on a dangerous thing…
the wind perished, the soft scent with it – but still I hope, what a fucking mistake –
So do I embrace bitterness,
watch
the elderly waltz of the clouds? Exhaustion and wine are infinite allies
if one fears seeing clearly
fears waking, merely remembering
because then –
oh I curse my two-tone heartbeat.
A phantom hand in the crook of my waist, and perhaps speakerless murmurs scatter the still morning air. Hope taints like a miserable stain.
I weep for the past,
and the gaping maw of the future; for the trap I escaped and the one I have bought; above all
for the child I am not,
and for you.
And like static lurking behind the music on a broken
fucking
radio,
the echoed song of my heart
simply
won’t stop.
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