I am here to learn about patience. When I put my head to your chest to hear your heart beating and there is no sound, is that because I am deaf on the side of your heart or have you indeed no heart, my infidel?
You bring to me your songs of the desert, of redemption and revisitation, and I feel the flimsy but sure desire to be in another place, a shatter of sun above us, the presence of the self: yours and mine.
If I am still, I fancy I can still hear it. My name in your mouth as you brought me into being. Something bloody on the tongue: fluvial, elemental. You unfolded your desiderata and laid it in oils upon my skin so that the words would always belong to me. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Go placidly in it. Strive to be happy.
An apple drops between us, entirely itself before itself becomes known. I hear a crow lift its wings and beat the air into submission. I hear a lark ascend on the notes of its boundaries into the sky. I walk barefoot through the garden of your stories. You put a finger to my lips, reminding me that I am here to learn about patience. Your mouth smashes into mine, promising me a sudden change of heart, and even as I am falling I wonder if your kiss is just another way of telling me to be quiet and remember what peace there may be in silence.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Tuesday, 23 June 2015
Tuesday, 16 June 2015
Your Illicit Self
Let a wand of feather guide me, as the sun fastens long shadows to the side of the motorway. I am making my way towards you. A wren flies across my path, her low zigzag making light of the situation. If you can call adultery a situation. If you can call rapture a situation. The way is lit by the shine of you, the evening's glow elongating the day. I'm restless, as I'm meant to be, anticipating the exchange of small incendiary sparks between us. Imagining the gloss of your smooth planes, the subtle scent of you, bugle maybe. Foxglove in the rain. Did I tell you I am a pluviophile? I want to wear you on my pulse points, the base of my spine, my wrists, my throat.
Let's blow it all, all this evening's gold until we can lie together, full spent, light and airy, as the breeze moves the curtains in this rented room and the day blesses us for her darlings once again. Who knew as I set out the day would shift from brave to brazen, to offer us something so unexpectedly tender, so poignant. Who knew the wand of feather would guide me to a nest as sweet and purposeless as this?
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Let's blow it all, all this evening's gold until we can lie together, full spent, light and airy, as the breeze moves the curtains in this rented room and the day blesses us for her darlings once again. Who knew as I set out the day would shift from brave to brazen, to offer us something so unexpectedly tender, so poignant. Who knew the wand of feather would guide me to a nest as sweet and purposeless as this?
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Monday, 8 June 2015
Then I'll Begin
I was conceived on a dustbin, while old ha'pennies rolled in the dark arcades, horses came in for betting men, and a woman with her eye on the main chance opened a book for how long the whole affair would last.
It was the night of the eclipse. The full moon hid her face behind a fan of brushed silk and out I fell from him into her. It was something like chasm, something like fulfilment. Sequins popped in the sky, rude streamers unfurled from the mouths of the angels, and the music-hall pageantry of the stars winked and made slow applause at my soiled beginnings.
It is of no matter. There are in this world blind babies wrapped in banana leaves, and odd man-shaped things dropped on forest floors. Where the child lies hid changes from one moment to the next. Here she is crawling under a patchwork quilt. Here she is creeping under the lid of a grand piano stranded on the stony beach. Temperament may play a part, but so too do circumstance and company. A dustbin lid rolled, like a cymbal, crashing out the news of my arrival.
I was born to a child-hearted woman, enamored of old 78 vinyl records and men in fedoras with knives in their socks. With delectable symmetry, once again there was a lunar eclipse. A coin flipped in the sky's palm and myself was unleashed. A thumb brushed away a tear, memories blurred, like some sort of colouring-in porn. The blushing moon rented us for her darlings, a spire glowed gold on a country church, Godmothers counted their blessings. There. That is all there was to it.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
It was the night of the eclipse. The full moon hid her face behind a fan of brushed silk and out I fell from him into her. It was something like chasm, something like fulfilment. Sequins popped in the sky, rude streamers unfurled from the mouths of the angels, and the music-hall pageantry of the stars winked and made slow applause at my soiled beginnings.
It is of no matter. There are in this world blind babies wrapped in banana leaves, and odd man-shaped things dropped on forest floors. Where the child lies hid changes from one moment to the next. Here she is crawling under a patchwork quilt. Here she is creeping under the lid of a grand piano stranded on the stony beach. Temperament may play a part, but so too do circumstance and company. A dustbin lid rolled, like a cymbal, crashing out the news of my arrival.
I was born to a child-hearted woman, enamored of old 78 vinyl records and men in fedoras with knives in their socks. With delectable symmetry, once again there was a lunar eclipse. A coin flipped in the sky's palm and myself was unleashed. A thumb brushed away a tear, memories blurred, like some sort of colouring-in porn. The blushing moon rented us for her darlings, a spire glowed gold on a country church, Godmothers counted their blessings. There. That is all there was to it.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
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