this is piece is as much as an excuse to play with words as anything else...
This is the part where we start to feel better, the part where we take up old journals and note pads and burn them. The part where all the tears and years of mourning lost romances comes to end in a spiral of dancing smoke and ash. The part where forlorn letters to spouses and ill formed vowels mean nothing to no one, little of all us. This is where heartache takes a cheap one way flight to the Bahamas because it is done with us and we’re are done with it. This is the part where we empty the closets, leaving skeletons in trash bags on the curb for the garbage men to deal with. This is where we take off our ugly pointy nosed masks of reality and age and let our faces of truth and naivety show through. This is the part where the past becomes passed and the present is unwrapped. And nobody’s cares that no one has cleaned up the wrapping paper or that there is sticky tape stuck to your shoe.
This is the part where we become reckless.
This is the part where coincidence is purely an incidence of chance and where luck has the grandeur of a medieval royal. Kissing luck’s feet takes us to meet, what could turn to conceit and deceit but the truth is that youth is not eternal nor meaningful when age creeps up on cheated. This is where lessons in luck are lucky learnt less legitimately than lovers of law and lucidity would like it to be. This is where unusual meetings of enemies and old flames over a shot of well aged scotch is not unusual in the least. This is the part where chance likes to dance and couples romance even if the couples aren’t couples at all.
This is the part where we meet.
This is the part without meaning or reason. The part where the angel of love dances the wedding march with the devil and comes out on top. This is the part where the narrator throws down his microphone kicks over his lectern in disgust and then the actors and characters all run amuck. This is the honeymoon with neither honey nor moon but your face is round and shining and your kisses are sweet. This is the part where things are sporadic, where lunacy steals reality’s crown and the court jester eats the whole pie with his fingers. This is where we go dancing in the rain because we know we have no dry clothes inside. This is the part where things get done because they shouldn’t be done and that’s reason enough for me. This is the part, in the words of old verse, that the imp of perverse can do us no worse than we do to ourselves.
This is the part where we all become crazy.
This is the part where words regain meaning. The part where tomorrow means forever and tomorrow never is a naughty word. This is the part where the daffodils are bisque, not yellow, where the sky is a shade of azure melting into amethyst in an array of senescent shades. This is the part where the teapot is compendious and corpulent not short and stout and your eyes are pulchritudinous not pretty. This is the part where words of no meaning have meaning beyond meaning and doesn’t your hair just exude incandescence in the cavorting lustrous lights of the night. Clandestinely the expressions with which we articulate gain the fluency of patriarchs in fluffy fuchsia slippers. Not making sense makes sense to those who are nonsensical by nature and naturally they take the lead in this part. This is the part where words are more than words and ‘I love you’ is even more than that.
This is the part where I love you.
This is the part where the eyes dance in unison. Where anatomy is an anthology of absolutely admirable attestations of why you and me were meant to be. Toes dance through bed sheets that wrap round bodies like whipped cream on a cake top and just as sweet. The part that’s like swirling sugar in your mother’s best coffee just to make what is good even better. This is the part with the dancers of esteem who dance before judges with no ears and no eyes. This is the part where they win the world in a teacup and yet have no competition at all. The part where from the back of the throat love is proclaimed in wordless words of moans and gasps of ecstasy. This is where we exalt the divinity of humanity, the part where god averts his eyes and makes like he’s really reading a book or something. This is the part that is retold in the mind and replayed in the heart whilst encapsulated in the soul forever for future reference.
This is the part where two become one.
This is the part where you wake in the morning upon mouldy motel pillows with minds full of memories that mean measly amounts to maundering souls. The part with the memories of events that most definitely happened but whether they happened in real or in dreams is unknown. The part where the light hurts your eyes as it dances by the moth eaten curtains you can’t call your own. This is the part where we forget all that was, that we had and that would be for always and for all ways. This is the part where my emeralds eyes play stranger to your sapphire eyes that lie beside me. This is the part where the sachet of sugar and coffee by TV that receives only two channels is more familiar than the body that with which once you were one. The part where the forces of vodka and gin are greater than love and memory, and take our hands from the wheel to slowly but surely drive us towards a tree.
This is the part where memory fails us.
This is the part where luck calls and puts down a full house. This is the part where the time has passed and the big hand is tired of turning but does so just to prove the little hand wrong. This is the part where the streets down which we walk are like the criss-crossing stripes on the bedclothes of hotels we’d never admit that we’ve slept in. Where mother’s best coffee still needs more sugar and we can wander and search down the back of any cupboard but there’s still no sugar to be found there. The part where the pretty people perfectly pounce through picturesque parodies of realities that are less than pleasurable. This is the part where the school teacher of chance partners us up once more, and tells us “Don’t be embarrassed, just dance,”. The part where the strangers who aren’t really strangers once more become strangers who aren’t.
This is the part where we meet. Once again.