Kick
in the guts.
1am
Panic. Textbook panic.
Smarting
eyes
10
reads later.
Eased
now.
While
sitting in patchy sunshine
(That
is Wellington)
I
look down at myself;
Reflect
on my colours,
Grey,
red, white and black:
Russian
Constructivism.
(Failed
attempt at the Indonesian flag)
This
was a metaphor,
And a reminder.
For
in my hand lay Tolstoy’s tome
And,
in my bag lay the Communist Manifesto:
In
my heart lay deconstructed abstractions
Of
reality kicking in.
I
was as alone as Zhilin in a 12 foot
deep well
Gnawing
at the dirt in search for reason.
I
had preconceived this reality a few eves ago,
In
a flush of early childhood Christmas eve excitement.
Suspecting
entirely.
Premonition
for sure.
A
few afternoons prior
I
sat, unwound completely, like graced ribbon
In
the shadow of my new Muse;
In
the company of fine sentinel trees
Fading
down, then up, springtime hillsides.
She
laughed. Repeated the name
Amused
surprise written in her smile.
Aaah.
Mutual friends, I thought. Incest.
The
quick phased obsessions. That phase out.
The
name too that I suspected
(insert
another amused smile here)
That
spangled the whole dealings
Those
5 months ago.
That
night. Baraka. Scrabble.
Pinkfloyd’s
Echo, Marvin Gaye’s What’s going on,
When
full well, something was going on.
Then
those 5 and a half months later
When
having furtively avoided eye contact
And
embraces
(Having
seen her
Exchanged
a smile;
But
sad to know
That
all of this
Resulted
in nothing)
I
slipped away with the
As
furtively slipping away Muse
Into
the torrential ice rain
Of
Lambton Quay
Into
the hills
Up
unstable steps,
Across
epochs of time
(in
my head)
To
her life.
I
finally crossed the threshold.
With
dragonfly pottery cups in hand
Of
‘restful’ tea
We
sat on the floor
Of
her deliciously decorated room
That
overlooks Matiu Somes island
(in
the daytime).
I
tread carefully
Around
the topic;
Mutual
intent. Incest.
But
much advice had she
Many
stories too
From
the depths of her favourite books.
People.
Her un-forgiven awkwardness.
He
rang me. Twice.
I
didn’t understand.
But
something like there is cake.
Why
hadn’t I come.
(On
reflection I want to cry
For
having indulgently missed this milestone
Of
arresting his case)
I
still didn’t understand.
Why
now?
In
the torrential wind and rain home
My
fingers trembled
While
fumbling for words
To
articulate my confusion.
No
awkward. No hurt.
Just
bitter cold.
I
had no expectations.
No
excitement.
And
yet, no answer troubles me.
Deconstructed
now,
As
cold as a Siberian winter
Fumbling
through iced confusion
Preserved
bitterly.
