No Help For That - Bukowski
i’m jealous of
and of your sheets
i want to hear
the sound of
There are words that are lonely
There are words hurt the tongue only
There are words that never speak
There are words that never break
But the most terrible of all
Are the words that never fall
But flip and flap in the sky
Not knowing when or how to die.
Everything is borrowed space, the space I occupy the space left behind. Who was here before? Who had a similar view of the garden?
In the story is a house in another part of the city, with a nearly identical room that can contain the both of us. Inside are objects that can be used in our own murder: a pair of scissors on a stack of folded napkins, the knives in the kitchen, a spool of floss in the downstairs bathroom, the poison under the sink. Inside the story, the living says, I woke up and saw a stranger standing at the foot of my bed.
Outside the story, we leave the couch and make plans for dinner, surrounded by the things that belong to us. Here, a window, a lace curtain. Here a table, a chair, a view of the garden. A plate of apples, a cup of coffee heavy with our reflection. Outside, night falls, and I touch your hand, and we believe we are safe, we believe we have all the time in the world.
From Maps, 1st place in Poetry (English), 2010 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature
Tom Hiddleston reads Bright Star by John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
Diane di Prima, “Revolutionary Letter #7”