Fenetre sur la lumière

New Year Ditty

Nothing could please me more than your submission.

In fact, your absolute reddition.

But you don’t even have to give in; just cooperate, as I’m sure you will, and all those years waiting for change to instil

a happening … will be taking root, getting ready to shoot.

Baby screams stop when the pram moves.

The words come and flow, the pitter-patter of the keys pleases my ego, strokes my self, takes me back to a place I have not yet been to,

like a lean-to at the bottom of an imaginary garden.

Shed your past, come on, you can do it, go the whole way, don’t be sacred…

As if I cake-red. No-one, but no-one would will no! Anonymous bliss, this.

Time marches on, time dances on, time rolls on and I am not in it.

Once boarded a train, but that was in another lifetime, and besides, the swain is married now.

Such high hopes, expectations all behind, the disappointment and the ledgers. Now it is a question of hear. All fear rolled away, quite gone.

At last a clear space. Light and room to zoom in on it or you or whatever, the time to choose, pick and ooze, tell it as it really will be. The lie of the land is flat. I think I could have been a bat, just for the ultrasonic guidance system. Withholding some of the evidence, she tried her best to scrape the lipstick off my vest in the interests of some greater test but it was too deeply encrusted by the time this all came a bout.

I scan the horizon.

Nothing.

A time.

The machine guns silent, no barbed wire to speak of, - if not peace, at least a truce. This is what you ran for, strove for, fought for. This piece of treaty. Armisticeness.

And now the chance to savour, feel and wallow not in victory, not in a war won, in a mere ceasefire, a lull from which to set off in search of something worth.

While such a thing, such a value may exist, perhaps it all just leads to this,

To safety, the no need to fight, struggle or strive, and the words, though live, just are, here, now, still.

Twingling in the aftermath, lolling around in the subtle distillate.

Neither hate nor love, but all-glowing souls. No rivals, enemies, prizes or goals to be sought, battles to be fought, causes to be wrought like iron clad leggings. Tom Sneddin said you would never make it. Well I’m here, now, whole and in one peace. The golden fleece, trail, grophies galore don’t mean anything anymore.

the words

are not bullets fired at targets

nor hooks hoping to pull in prey, flares to attract attention, vibrations to effect abstention.

the words are just words.

free of dare, free of the snares of animosity, reciprocity, agropophosy, lascivoscoty…

like pebbles plopped into the well to sound the depths, probe in ripples… frôlent some nipples

serendipity reigns down in a shower of gravitdas