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Virtual pensieves 4
Chatelayne
22 Jun 2002
Love is a many splendoured tiredness. Blink and the light goes out in the middle of anarchy. Friendship drives through a toll booth at a minefield in Camdan Island, Left, End of the World, and extracts exact change of silver for all the gold tipped pens that fly incessantly through the thick heated air scratching smoothly across a thick blue pad of strawberry ink carving stars in the hearts of silver fairies and dipping into Marbleberry jam at Tuturn's End, North Eton before spreading toast and arid butterflies in two French elephant tusks which subsequently scatter into the night sky bringing joy and a burst of colour out of a pot of dark Bohemian chocolate.
A silky sigh screeches in the darkness scaring no one but the door of my heart gets kicked when madness sings in anguish while hanging from the Abyss at the end of the World, looking back at a slimly lady in a scarf of floral prints who insists on the Earl of Eastbourne taking to the streets in search of the golden goal in a game of misery. The lady in the scarf has seen nothing yet because her eyes lay hidden in the glasses of pheasant blue and the marmalade ink splashes across the pale of white, colouring the sadness a gratifying red before siphoning the lightest colour of all frozen feelings down a drain below the white steel sink of my backyard into the eye of a sleeping baby tornado, revered and guided by tenderness, waiting to be started...
Life ties you up in bundles of clasped freedom and the latter rages constantly in your heart. This too shall pass. It is a bad day at the Office of Production, 10-2-1 Birth Street, Heaven. But that too shall pass.
And then the clock strikes suddeness in a tremendous BURST of sweet rich treacle thickness and I can't stop eating the speed of goodness and happiness that falls over each other to fill every last crevice of my blood red powerful beating heart. The taste rolls in my heart and pumps candy filled cakes of songs into bite sized portions that disappear into the bloodstream, stopping at each turn to tell a neighbour the golden news.
Goals and footballs join the ticker tape parade and on a old brown park bench in front of a forest of sleeping crickets in Loiuseville, Illinois, a sweet gal with a ponytail in a powder blue sweater teaches a boy in a brown jacket how kisses smell like light roses and granny's apple pie with an eagerness so wild and powerful in its infusion, ancient silver celestials brave muted blazing bite-sized memories to stand in the sunshine of stars embossed on a silent midnight sky, to watch emotions plunge in deeply and swim silent, steady strokes up to a golden harped symphony of stunned seriousness before collapsing in writhers of squalid, derelict delight and uncontrollable twists while dancing to an all-powerful helplessness that gasped and ached with each dive into a spasm of light that brightened a frenzied body already wrecked tirelessly by sizzling trust and sweet n sour agony.
Passion went out to relieve itself and Sanity crept in silently through the front door and threaded fingers with Love and out goes the colour in my life. Clocks speed up to mark the re-arrival and reacquisition of the mainstream and my heart ticks in rugged anticipation of a dry sweet, chocolatly luck at the end of the T-shirt that got wrung out and left to dry on Time's clothes line, blowing gently in the winds of patience. Caressed. Felt. and Held with infinite tranquillity in the translucent veil of air that breathes silently with exponential silence that slowly, very s-l-o-w-l-y decreases. Into stillness.
Dropping a stone of confusion into the sea of tranquillity
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