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All day I've dreamed of you by Abigail George 2022-04-06 06:47:28 |
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All day I’ve dreamed of you (for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)
Once, once you were like Persia to me.
For the last time, show me the ways to love. Cue me its despair. It’s hardship.
This deprivation that must follow its
demise. This starvation that must follow its poverty. This progress. This madness that eats away at my soul. It twinkles like noisy stars,
those glam beauty queens with their own illustrious alibis, their lunar emptiness and subtle-subtle subterfuge.
No more walking in circles for me, friend. No more wishing the past is gone while sitting in at my kitchen table. I’m over that bridge.
These stars have their own silent-silent moon-sick horses. Moon-sick bones. Butterflies in their governing confusion leaving scratch-marks on
the seawalls of my stomach. The red brick walls of my lungs. I think your parade beautiful. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re
Jupiter. Does it matter. Does it matter. I think of those Caucasian stars pasted on the ceiling of the night sky. I am ready to confess.
Does it matter that I am only ready to confess now. I am trying to erase the beast-monster. Monster-beast that has made me suffer so.
The forest was painted. It even had wrinkles. Age lines made out of soul. Spidery leaves marking the end of
time, that
hourglass country, a hive found there in the segmental ruins of the God-supernatural found in the honey and milk and blood-
work of the desert. Let’s take a trip out there to where the wind blows. That infant deed. Can you tell. I’m dreaming
of those Parisian-syllables. The ethereal. The apparition of that high mountain-top. That drum. That prophet. God’s lions.
Elijah. David. Jeremiah. Job. Jonah. God’s chosen. There were others. There were others. I’ve written about this before. Falling in love
and falling out of love but I’ve never written about our love before. You made the veins in my heart splendidly narrow so that only
the pure river could flow through. The smell of roses. Old wounds forgotten. Only the reigning legend of the
sparse river could get through before anything else. Before the blood itself. I wanted you to know that I’m pressed for time. That
you’ve been a legend in my life before you became a legend in real life. I’m writing this to thank you for not taking me
all the way to madness like the others did. You were the virtuous one. You were the one who saved me. I just
thought that you should know that. I’ve been carrying that around with me for the longest time. You were
genuine. They were fake but I ate their cake anyway because I was young.
I called myself victim under a million stars. I just wanted you to know that life
is different for me now. I’m no longer running up streets and down streets in Johannesburg.
I’m authoritative when it comes to my feelings now. I don’t try to slip a yes in when I mean no. I’ve learned how to say no.
Oh, I also know what thirst is. But I don’t project my hate unto other people and I listen to others (which I never did before).
This grid, I have put it away. It is an exile like me. I don’t know yet if it must be forgotten.
I keep watch over spring or it keeps watch over me. I don’t know which. I only know this.
Sometimes when I get angry my anger is as hot as a desert and I don’t ask for permission. Only that you listen. I forget.
Please forgive me when I forget. Please, please, forgive me when I forget myself. Once, yes, once, you were like Persia to me.
*********************************************************************** Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves, "All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren" Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!
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