Watchers Tale

Insomnia
Running away from that
piece of quiet of the night
A monologue over nothing and everything
There is no mate for the terror of my head
It seems like the Universe is asleep
and has put me on guard
Protector of living and dead things that you all see
Of monsters, of spaces, of art
 
Resurrected ghosts of another cosmos are dancing in my moldy room
One of them approaches me and says
 
"Come!  
this is how men cure their desires
their will that cannot be done"
 
A girly ghost declines
"Don't you dare!
He's lying to you!
This is a plane
Don't answer him back
Just turn around
Speak to the Night
She is awake"
 
 
I smile and pay attention no more
My imagination is as wealthy as my old soul
My heart is wide shut
My bad luck is loosened along with my conciense
And when I arrive
in Morpheus' embrace
I am somebody else
but I am me
Visions of seas teeming with bunches of blue grapes
Escaping from the yoke of my fears is sweet
I am unleashed
for a while
 
 
 

She wanted to feel small again,
still brave enough
to shout her name into the head wind,
to breathe herself alive in the rising swell.

The pier was deserted as she stepped over
the danger sign that danced on its rusty chain.
Through the murk of stirred up sand
her red raincoat appeared disrespectful
to one so angry, one so hungry.

The wooden boards flexed like sleeping ribs
as a large wave spewed over a little café
soaking her favourite Sunday morning spot
to sit and sip hot Mocha.
She would watch the red of the sun
behind closed eyes and inhale the sea-salt air,
the way her mother had always done.

Far off in the deep its mass was moving,
a vast sea cat timing its run for the neck,
each thudded step counted in the waves
as she ran towards the spray,
a surfer would have known what was coming.
The ocean smashed through the decking,
a sledge hammer on piano keys,
its mouth tight around her legs and chest
as it carried her deafeningly into muffled silence.

On a warm Sunday her usual spot was taken,
a man watching his son crab fishing on the rocks.
" I've got one" the boy shouted,
guiding his catch into a bucket.
He didn't notice the red shape shifting in the sand
surfacing only to fold across the rocks,
a small offering as the guilty tide
bowed with outstretched arms
and stepped away.

There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear,  
pecking at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.  
The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel,  
her darned stocking legs,protrude from the thread worn,  
giant’s chair.  
The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival  
in pools of condensation on window sills that  
miss the scrape of sandpaper and the gild of gloss.  
Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed;  
only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers.  
In close proximity camphorated oil  
warms to its nightly application.  

The watcher loves the watched,  
he understands affection is currency,  
spent on echoes of children gone before.  
Regardless he squeezes hard against steel  
and rests his head on a cardigan perch.  
 
Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air,  
one born of cigarette the other, solder.  
The man peers over taped rimmed glasses,  
through an eye piece,  
into the circuit of an unwanted radio.  
Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, both requiring gold leaf  
and a steady hand.  
Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions,  
the lady sits in the adjoining room.  
Reading light poised over the latest library card choice,  
she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger  
as the author’s words invoke raw emotion.  
 
The watcher loves the watched;  
he understands needing to be apart, together,  
the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper.  
Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.  
 
Scribbled carbon lines,  
crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.  
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks,  
with a pencil behind his ear.  
Separated by time and a devil driving delivery,  
his wife traces lines for number games  
and things tactile to touch.  
The man’s youth is framed by the door;  
he glances in rooms discussed before,  
a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.  
 
The watched loves the watcher;  
he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed,  
the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection.  
Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted  
with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.