Day: Jun 24, 2013
Someone just sent me a message saying “What was your day like today?” This is how I replied: “I get up at 5.30am because a poem is driving me crazy from the inside. I spend a couple of hours vomiting it onto a virtual page while having some breakfast (the juice of a lemon with 7.8 pH water, a kiwi fruit and some ground millet with soya milk). I practise some songs, trying to make them stay in my brain. I am still naked and will stay naked all day. Clothes are a silly disguise. I only ever wear them to console others and stay within the law. I dance for half an hour to some salsa music. I smile a little. I open the windows towards the sea and breathe in the nectarly air. The sight of all that water brings some tears in my eyes. Tears are not a sign of unhappiness but simply the fact that the emotions cannot process the elements as fast as the brain. I spend some considerable time organising music stuff, liaising with musicians for the band I’m creating, designing a setlist for the first gig. I delve some more into my teach-yourself-Spanish course. I think I’m too brain-damaged to learn other language. My late lunch is a piece of Dinkel-brot with avocado salad. The afternoon is spent in a mixture of writing my “Reluctant Angel” project and practising more music. I am still naked and will be all day. If you looked carefully you could see my soul. This evening I eat steamed vegetables with a creamed lentil sauce and then listen to the 2nd Symphony of Jean Sibelius. Music is a miracle. I absorb it like dry leaves in the rain. Now it is now and I can hear the gentle waves outside licking the foot of the cliff. Resisting diving from the top is a full-time job. How was your day?”
It was a face I knew I’d never see again.
The only time its leaves had blown across my view
was through the window of another endless train
which, in the opposite direction, crowly flew.
No answer came when, nonplussed, I had wondered why
those eyes — of all the others in this realm today —
should penetrate the weathered piercingness of my
disguised delight and throw me into disarray.
And then I saw her tender hands pressed on the glass:
her face which (puzzled) followed mine till seen no more.
Why would she want a man who travels pirate-class —
our lives spent on a train stuck in a corridor?
I was a blaze which burned for seconds through her why.
She was a breeze which passed across my broken sky.
© Alan Morrison, 2013