Big Heart, Wild Heart

It’s not the nature of the heart to stay open.

It opens, it shuts, it opens, it shuts. Feel it. That’s what it’s doing all the time, all by itself.

Your usual heart is a rhythmical heart: systole and diastole, in and out, up and down, open and not open. Goes on and on. And on. Without fail.

Regular heart. Predictable heart. Staying at home heart. Safe heart.

Which is my ordinary everyday heart. It pumps me machine-like through my day to day. It’s my dumb heart. The heart I don’t hear.

I feel the need to feel something hot. Hear something loud. Go jump my heart out into the Wilderness. Ride my heart like a Crazy Horse.

I want my heart to ache; even if it hurts. Cus then I know my heart exists.

I want my heart to no longer be in here as only me, as merely mine. But be yours.

Get ready – to jump on

We’re going bare-back…….!

Lingering the longing

Delay gratification;

teasing and tantalising,

making the This stretch …..

and stretch….

into a long lingering moment…..

where barely endurable pleasure….is kept hanging…

hanging…. hanging…..

on a precious

dangling

breakable

thread.

Domination becomes submission

nearly pleasure

becomes

almost pain

right close up to the Edge

of the unbearable.

And then at last, relief -

Want gets taken by Have.

Satiation is released,

Get let go of by being given

agonizing but beautiful

but beautiful to be agonized

to capture the desire in you as though it were my own

desire being controlled.

The cow next door

1
Cow sat idly all day. She was not waiting. She was not hoping. All would soon be over. Nothing would be happening.

She had on very little. The room was hot, windows were shut, the front door locked from within. The air everywhere around was a breathless fug. She puffed all day long. Smoke had de-materialized into every fabric. The fluffy purple carpets were impregnated. The pant of her body was heavy and slow. Her odours were sickly and damp, especially from her hindquarters and rump.

2
A shy creature wary of contact, with gloopy brown eyes, heavy haunches, slow. Branded on her arse was the name of her previous. When you met her on the stairs you were loved and sweet-hearted, then she’d be mooing at you with nervous gales of laughter – so as to get rid of you. You knew, could sense it from the fear in her breathing, she wanted to take off. A cow stuck in a stairwell.  She’d have preferred not to have these accidental bumping into’s.  Consequently she rarely ventured away from, left the safety of her quarters.

3
When she dared to go, or had to – no choice but to – go out there would be a quick rattle of keys unlocking the door from within, then locking the door from without, then a hoofing of herself down the long stairs.  About ten minutes later, a heavier hoofing of herself back up the stairs, keys in the lock again, door opened from without, door closed from within, keys locking in, door locking shut, and one skittish cow mightily relieved.

4
Back inside she could settle down with herself once again. Spread out wide across the soft sofa. Loosen her buttons. Rip off the straps. Tits full forward to full with overflowing. Be open with fanny waiting.

Her fanny was open for good reason. She had a persistent, ever-present need.

She touched herself there to open the need. She touched soft, she touched gentle and rubbed. The need – stimulated, burst open. The need soon became engorged, swollen, satisfied. The blood blushed. She would leave it there, open, unclosed, inviting as a juicy fruit. The juices gush out, soaking into

5
It was hot in there in her confined place. For day after day. She dared not venture out. There was no food. But she could drink. So she drank and drank. She would milk her drinks generously, with leakings and gushings from within herself.

6
A calm life she lived. No harm to anyone. Out of harm’s way. Safely shut away and no one to interfere. Her quietness was remarkable. It was like living next door to a corpse.

7
Eventually, she died in there.

As far as I knew there had been an accident. She’d wandered off into a place she was not allowed to be. The car that was to kill her was on its way. She never knew what hit her. The metal slammed hard into her soft body and down she went. The consciousness was knocked out of her head. Car drove off in haste leaving her there to bleed to death into the tarmac.

Her consciousness jumped back in. Her head was full of herself again. She had to struggle up. She was not going to die out there on that black and hard road. It was ignoble. It was too visible.

8
Somehow she made her way home. She bled her way up the stairs. Collapsed back inside. As always, door closed from within, keys locking in, door locking shut.

Got a blade from the kitchen drawer to finish herself off. Settled down in her favourite place and spread out wide, loosened, leaking all over, ripped open and ready raw. To apply the finishing deed.

And would have done.

But the blood was flushing out. She was hemorrhaging away too fast. Her life in flood, gushing rapidly, hopelessly, away.

The sofa turned from green to crimson red where she lay, where she quickly expired.

9
She was found 3 days later with the blade still in her hand.

She had been all too prepared and willing.

To cut herself into sirloin, cut herself into steak

Softly sang birds

Softly sang birds all about. Inside wood waved ferns in wafting breeze and they were among them, hand in hand, slowly making way. Up between trees glimpsed small puffs of clouds against greatly blue sky. Ahead they saw their small perfect place to lie. There they fell and lay, arms round each other. Tall ferns hid these two deep in the wood from anyone. Soft like peaches the light.

This on a hill lush with thick green sloping up east to west as below was slow run river glimpsed glinting in flashes. Some men were rowing boats and some sat watching. Beyond were couples sitting, lying in each others arms while also groups of friends played laughing in sunlight, some volleyball, some catching and throwing, on grass cropped short by deer. Behind these, at tables and benches were families eating and drinking with dogs. The deer had gone and had hidden for so many people in their park.

They lay beside one another glad to be away. With closed eyes she kissed his kiss. Stopped. Carried on. With closed eyes he kissed her kiss. Hands all the while moved between the two continuous in strokes and caresses of touches. Then drew he away from her, lay alone on right side a while looking up as one leaf fluttered down from above; he reached out and took leaf before its coming to rest on wood floor and looked upon it caught within hand, sleepy, sleepily. He said leaves were falling and she murmured yes eyes still shut and he said leaf not even brown yet, when she, not opening her eyes, groped a hand for his, and it fell on his face, and she touched his soft lips with long nail of finger.

He sat up, still with her long nail upon his soft lips. Pushing he sucked nail into mouth and delicate silver ring on finger was sucked away inside also. She opened blue eyes to smile at him. In her smile he slid out ring and nail from mouth, and the fingers of this, her left hand with glittering rings, went stroking to his hair. Looked into he fell onto back again to lie beside her and all their eyes instead looked above to the sky through green leaves.

They listened up there. Birds sang invisible songs near around. Quiet the small songs, but broken then by flapping squawks like bright harsh parakeets from far away. Came shouts from volleyball players below. Laughter too was in the air, the voices of children running and playing. Then dogs yapped off leashes. It’s amazing what you hear when you listen said she. Yes amazing said he and his eyes closed shut to listen more.

She lay with open eyes and ears marveling at fine finger of sun poking through small spaces within leaves. She felt breeze breathing warm upon face. Another smile went through her and propping head with forehead up from ground she looked her heart into him as he lay sleepy again and said he was lovely, and it was lovely here. Yes he said. Am I? he said. Yes she said, you are. Why? he said. Because, she said. And encouraged, he began talking and talking more, saying he thought maybe this would happen and maybe that and many more such words came spurting.

But she had not listened any more. Instead with fern frond she brushed him lightly across nose tickling. Laughing he rose up and caught her tickling hand. They giggled and tickled together and grabbing away fern he tickled her funny until powerless she could no more. Stop she says and he pinned on top of her with hands pressed hard upon trembling wristfuls of bracelets. Get off she says, get off you’re hurting. He got off pulling funny faces. Laughing she jumped up and sat astride him where gentle she gave his head playful slaps. She bent her mouth down onto his, kissed and made up.

Looking upon him she undid buttons and took his hands inside shirt with hers to fondle the tits there. He held them as they hung and she said kiss them but, teasing, he said he wouldn’t so she lowered left tit and rubbed against his shut lips. She pushed hard with it and prized open as if clamped in the vice of his mouth. He nipped away on brown whorl of nipple with soft teeth that felt like pricking sparks to her so that she had to lift away and put agonized tit back inside shirt.

Can I? says he. No says she, not yet. Later. Why? says he, Why later?. Why not now?. Not here says she. Someone will hear. Who will hear?, says he. Someone says she, someone out there. Lets’ wait for tonight. I can’t says he, I want to now. And he starts to undo buckle on belt. No, says she, no. I don’t want to. I’m serious. Don’t.

And she shrugged away on side showing back to him, not wanting, in a huff. You’ve spoilt it says she talking to tree. It was lovely here says she. Now you’ve spoilt everything. Glumly he looked on, looking nowhere, trying to focus something to say. He looked on her empty back and picking up fern frond tickled again. Stop it she shouts still turned away. He tickled more, annoying more, and turning she swung a hard slap on his face.

Blood split from his bottom lip cut open by her silver rings. God, says she, God, what have I done. Are you all right?. Let me see. Come here let me see. She took his hands from off the lip and put all the fingers of her hands with their long nails around his mouth to nurse the broken lip. I’m sorry says she, I’m sorry, and with tongue to lip she licked away tenderly the drops of blood. Does it hurt? says she, let me make it better, let me. Yet it was only a slight scratch.

Sun was now behind one small puff of cloud but moving came out again stroking more fine fingers of light through the many leaflets. Deep, deep in wood the sun fingers branded deer, quivering, listening, and in his coat was held for an instant but he jumped from the touch and deeper hid within purple shade. For even here there came noises to him of people shrieking and splashing from river down below.

Out in barest light of sun was hot, too hot for some who went seeking sleep under rest of shady trees. None went as far as they, safe within wood. No one to come across them unbeknown, where, there as they lay, she was upon him still kissing the spoilt lip.

Shall we? says she. And she took his hand down inside her to where she had come open. Shall we? She wanted to, didn’t mind now who might be hearing. You’re funny says he. So you want me now? You funny curran. Come here then. And he rolled her over, undid top button of trousers, unzipped zip, pulled down panties off legs and pushed his way in her deep, deep inside.

That’s lovely says she. He had eyes like rays of 2 suns shining forth smiling upon her. All the little rings of her left hand shone in fingers of sunlight as silver glitters about his back. She, with eyes closed, and hidden within, listened to all around. The sound of laughing from below, of singing from above. From between, sound of their two voices together, loving. As softly sang birds

Deep, deep in wood, growing used to noise, the deer bent his head to nibble at fern leaf; quiet his gentle eyes.

M’illumino, d’immenso

I leave my dreams to race towards the earth. I want to get there before it opens for business.

I’ll be the first in the queue to get the first free offer of light as it starts up another day.

To take the first of dawn.

As it is sweeping into the windswept Gulf of Bothnia.

Or cracking over those rough stoned goat-fields in Casamagioli.

Or squeezing out of a solitary lemon tree above Luxembourg City.

Or pushing in amongst the honking wild boars of the Forest of Zonza. Or filtering through the Bahnhof of Berlin Zoo.

Or cutting up the cobbles between the Trabants of Lublin.

Or fattening and sweetening the black cherries of the Alpines.

Or tripping across the hang bridge over the still lake at Luzerne.

Or gusting as dark winds through the forests of Finland.

Or breaking over a peasant hut in that hot Corsican meadow.

Or misting in veils around the Schloss of the Pfauen Insel. Or lacing the traceries of the spiders in situ.

Or here:

In a bedsit of boredom amidst the Crackheads of Suburbia.

I flood myself with the light of the immense

You are my innermost

Winter morning of winter night. Thousands slept in warm beds under togs. Town was a glitter of frosty rooftops. No car started. No bird stirred. All around was silent as softly fallen snow.

No one was up yet. Not one. All was one sleep. All were busy with themselves. Many would not wake yet, and not for some time. Too early, too soon. More dreams were needed.

Only one was awaking. She, with eyes barely open, dreaming the life in her. She imagined herself to be the only one to know for miles around. From everywhere she was fast returning, gathering to herself in glimmers, from her north, her south, her east, her west, she was coming fast in as light into day, in to her innermost.

The thousands slept, none waking. Only her. Awaking, just out of sleep, just in sleep, lying there with life in her. Life was in her belly. Life beat there. Under duvet her hands went onto belly. The fingers were sensing, softly stroking, as if with feelings of their own, feeling the life beating there. ‘My baby’ she said in herself, ‘My baby’. She smiled, in herself, to her belly. With the smile she imagined the life that grew there, seeing it as it would be, as the baby it would be like. It would be like a baby, her baby. A baby like her, that would be her like. Her like-life. Picture-perfect. She smiled at the perfect in her picture.

The life in her made a move as if knowing something.

From pretty blind over window were slats of light glimmering through, dimly giving off hints of day to come. There she lay, a body for a bed, yawning a big O, with the morning opening silently around her and within, the darkness in her halved by light, with life beating there, as a baby.

The thousands slept. The town not stirring, not starting. Still in darkness still in night, not knowing

Her life-like, beating from within, made a simple move, as if yawning a little O, as if smiling. The smile flew through, flying like yellow threads in her blue tapestry, the fabric of her dreams. ‘Baby, are you smiling? are you?’ she said silently into herself. ‘Are you waking too? And, tenderly, she thought like this for some time as if to a dream.

She rose, making over to window with pretty blind and peeked through slats with fingers. Outside, a winter day was approaching, cold as night. She could barely see more than she could feel. Against her body were floes of air like ice breaking around periphery of skin.

She stood there, bereft, at the window like the first one or maybe the last one left to look. All within was silent and deadly still. ‘Let me have myself as my friend…….may I learn to be alone…….of everyone you met was only you, you would be with always’ were her thoughts to herself, looking out of her body seeing nothing.

She hopped back to bed. She wanted arms around her then. Her hands felt on her belly. Life was still beating there. Her life. Her innermost. From far out of everywhere it had come, like the sun to her, like light into day.

Thousands were still sleeping, not waking. Would not wake, maybe never, thought she. She would be the only one. No one would ever know, would ever wake enough to know: this morning, this life-like, this only, this she.

Here to listen, here to see

Evening in summer. Warm winds, warm sky. A flock of starlings were on the way from nowhere.

Here they came, as flying black dots across warm sky. They came towards silver birch and some went to the right. They fell upon birch like leaves. The others went in circle curling round south side and fell there upon birch like leaves. Silver birch could stand them all. When all were there settled they began singing. Silver birch tree of one hundred singing starlings.

Another flock was on the way, again as flying black dots across red evening sky. Here they came to same birch and some went to left. They fell upon birch like leaves. The others went in circle curling round north side and fell there upon birch like leaves. Silver birch could stand them all. When all were there settled they began singing. Silver birch tree of two hundred singing starlings.

Silver singing birch tree. As one song. How wonderful. Here to listen, here to see. A singing tree of evening summer.

She knew birch and starlings for first time.

Starlings stopped the song. With whooshing like wind they blew out of birch and lifted up into red of sky together and together all as one bird, arcing in a bowed line, flushed on warm winds of air, to then split in two with one half sweeping to right of sky the other to left.

Up, up they were going, disappearing to left and right, two halves disappeared as whole sky for some moments, no longer seen, no longer heard.

Silver birch still, here standing still, going nowhere.

Before long, same starlings were returning, down, down they were coming, appearing to left and right as flying black dots arcing in a bowed line and fell, together and together as one into same silver birch like dropped leaves again. They began song and silver birch was singing starling tree yet again.

How long had it been evening?

As long as she had been here to listen here to see

Words are not enough

The romantic poet N wrote:
What a wonderful feeling to be in love with you,
Though you are far away,
Though you are hardly here,
Though you will never stay.

His mentor M, also a poet, rectified it:
What a wonderful feeling to be in love with you,
Though you complain so unlovingly.
What a wonderful feeling to be in love with you,
Though you live in such an ugly world.

Their experienced domestic, old Oh
Then spoke in the following way:
If there is no action in the actual sense,
There’s no use bothering with sweet words.
What a wonderful feeling to be able to kick poets in the ass.

( – Sunday morning)

The earth is saying poems again

The earth is saying poems again.

From hospital window I see sun. I feel sun warm in blood. I hear bird. The call for likely mates. I sense warm. I feel galvanized. I notice the shake of wind in far trees. I touch down. I rejuvenate. The simple joy. The simple things. Of this to make happy.

All is primed. The jouissance of nonold newyoung life ready to go.

Zoom down below to where are flowers like flags before the off. The yellow, the red, the blue – precipitously teetering. Everywhere is a jumpful of starts.

Men and women, young or old, go by oblivious.

Zoom over to the far trees. More trees in hospital grounds soon to be planted. This -a Very Good Thing. Trees correlate to cure say Department of Health. Following surgery, those who see trees need less medication and have faster recovery times. It’s true. So over to farthest far tree I go to lay upon topmost strongest branch, nestled inside safe and secure, recovering within, one leaf amongst many.

The sunlight loiters upon pale pipes and creates shadow.

His mind goes away. Only 43. Not time yet. And yet time after all. The new Big Thing, the big All Prescient Now. Here to stay. A Time Is Up notice ready to be hung onto the back of his consciousness. Nothing to be done. All to be over with so soon. Returning to earth as a consonant maybe, or maybe a vowel.

To be part of the earth as a P or an O, an E or an M or an S.

A quick shot of sunlight again, out shining up the nearest things. Warm windows bouncing back heat into the room to fall into his eyes.

I look from where I am, out on the path as it cuts across, and people walking with legs strong as stalks pressed firm. I see what they are not seeing. To see it for them. I hear it for them. What they are not hearing. The cheering, the saluting. The flags, the poems.

Cloud moves over Sun.

He leaves again. Thoughts of departure without destination. He feels nothing. No more fear. No more arrival. No more seeing. No more saying. No more earth. No more sun.

Sun returns

A Lonely Lament

Already seventeen thousand nine hundred
and seventy six days lived this life is

With several more thou to go?
I ask you. (Yes YOU)

Or maybe merely a few
or possibly as little as less than.

I guess not too many left remaining,
of such small days as these

so soon to be over with
to be too sorry for or complaining.

Hardly any, barely enough
to finally, at last

get to where I was going to
was going to all along.