I love you most when you romance my ghost,
Leave me on the eaves, a complex Nabokov scene, alone with my dreams and wishes. Love you most.
When the Fahrenheit inside is higher than the centre of the sun.
You could fill me up like an open grave. Plant
Poppies, euphorbia, geranium, all spirit flower
Like the tip of your tongue.
I used to be the great chiromancer on the high building down Naipul Street. And I set the bones of lovers so that they forgot past mistakes.
Now, bury me in the rinds they leave behind on their separate journeys, their reversed footprints, coming when leaving.
Leave me in asylum of past mistakes and unfinished journeys.
I only kiss the ones I love, the rest of the time I’m kissing strangers.
You could be my counter-revolutionary, with long black chest hair and a name that rhymes with the smoke of Havana cigars. A long name, with sections and midsections. Your name could be the curve of a heavy river. You could be lying supine on a table waiting for a pathologist.
And what are my fingers? What were my fingers then? Long black songs with tips like darkness. Scalpels in a dark opera called what-you-do-to-me. The places you walk on are black holes I could get lost in. my fingers were unfinished sonatas, composer killed himself with a mix of cyanide and honey-milk.
We could be props in the backstage. Me heavy curtains, and you support beams. In a hall that’s too far down the street, too high up the building for anyone to bother with.
Sometimes I imagine myself a silver age baron and you are my emperor of rhyme, hidden somewhere underground, living on bread and mercy and the milk of my being. You can reverse the roles if you wish.
What music is that? And does the piper know I’ve listened to the best possible music from your black horn?
Every flag I wave is dream white and my morning is a long dream sequences cut into an orphaned child’s apparitions.
As the wingspan of fairies in a book of concealments.
Hide me where you have always hidden your shame, a deep place, a black hole. Where music plays backwards and voices enter people through the mouth.
Let’s not go talk about the mouth.
Everything I know, I have learnt from war poetry. Especially long love letters like this one.
Can we eliminate the common syllables in our existence and see what happens to the edifice, the love rubble that stays?
Reeds full of clouds and wind to beat our hides with ice. Each morning is an elegy and I could pay God for a door of bright dusk and an evening without the heavy task
Of lifting your weightless body off my ghost.