Love is a many faced fellow.

Obsessional love is obsession.

With love thrown in.

The object of desire could be a cigarette.

Its coiling smoke painting blue wreaths in the air.

Gentle love is gentle.

The object of desire could be a pet.

Its soft fur a comforting, idle distraction.

 

Early morning sun.

The matriarch propped up and bathed in light.

Her mouth and forehead lined with concentration as she pores over a text.

She is solving a grammar question.

We laugh at the literal interpretation.

Only half able to explain how we know the answer.

The smell of coffee.

Mismatched cups and a breeze through the high, large windows.

Time is slower now.

The arrival.

The smell of roasting meat.

Everything beautifully laid out.

The chef apparently calm, perspires profusely over his groaning table.

An ice cold glass of vodka mellows time to a heady thrum.

People begin to arrive.

The parents.

Then the boys.

The Gorilla Keeper.

The afternoon speeds up.

A tumble of food, chat and wine.

 

 

Lush green.

Boughs and bushes pushed through the open window.

A green blockade.

Throughout the day the colour changed.

The high heat of 12 with its strong sun allowed no shade.

And the green was whitened.

A short rain burst bucketed down.

And the green was heightened.

As the afternoon moved on it became denser and denser.

In the early evening the light toned it down and the green was darkened.

All day I watched that green.

It was so singular, an uninterrupted stream of green. 

The iron smell of ink.

A silky black.

The fine tip of the brush lifts a full drop.

Holding it 'til it slips to thick paper.

A tumble through air, the drop turns and turns, giving the page a bold blot.

A dab of water and with the wash the black runs to grey.

The artist teases out her features.

Marking out key points on the paper.

He slowly builds a nose, eyes and a mouth.

It isn't his best picture.

But to watch him work is a silent pleasure.

A war wound.

The blackened toe.

Blotted with blood.

White poked through, so I knew it'd renew.

An injury incurred in the line of duty.

I had battled on.

Using the fat, painful toe.

Not telling a soul about the afflicted sole.

A motley crew.

Young, gold hooped earrings and gum.

Older, hennaed hair, gappy teeth and fun.

Abused, shy, smiley, with a whiff of glum.

Foreign, intense eyes and wiry limbs, slim French speaking Jim and his German lass.

Then you and I.

 

A snakeskin mist had settled in the plastic bottle.

Its rim was crusted with many different days of condensation.

It tasted salty.

Around its blue lid, half screwed on, half screwed off, was an elastic band.

It was the water carrier.

It needed replacing.

But day in, day out there it sat  on a chicken shit brown plywood desk.

Cheap and chipped but constant.

Huddled on the corner.
The four men stood in conference.
The cops' bullet proof vests black across their bare chests.
Their heads were bowed over their notebooks as they scribbled ver batim all the youth had to say.
The boys were boys.
All limbs and dumb but defensive faces.
They seemed to be calm.
Like they'd met for a picnic and were waiting for the clouds to clear before they got out the fizzy pop.
Lots of kids get to see too much of what adults have to sometimes say.
They see the ugly lears and the fighting tears.
They see pornos, do drugs and fight.
They see it all.
They know it all.
Adults don't understand the violence and nor should they.
But that is sometimes how it is today.

Cheap as chips vs carpe diem.
Life on the edge vs in a box.
Here's my heart, here's my hand vs heartattack.
Life is for living.

Oh to breathe the heady, hallowed air, 
listen to the silence of damp, green-glinting glades, 
and warm our feet on mossy, rocky greys. ...this is what it is to be alive! 
Oh yes to share these charmed joys with friends and lovers... 
this is what it is to be alive. 
To read, to sleep, to sleep some more....this is what it is to breathe mountain airs.

Bauhaus kids.

Heads full of lines and fizz.

Cameras, concrete, crayons and card.

Canvases for art.

And an urgent desire to start.

We are new.

What we know now has not been known before.

We will create.

We will generate.

We are the Bauhaus kids.

 

 

There are distinct paths.

Routes which can be taken.

They have all been taken before.

It is a matter of choice which one you take.

It depends on your priorities.

What do you want?

 

 

 

 

 

Gym toned cheeks rippled under her blue dress.

She picked at her g-string with a manicured nail.

And rubbed the mottled skin of her red upper arms.

Hugging herself.

Holding her stomach in.

Her hair was short.

Split ends feathered around her neck and tickled her ears.

Her sunglasses hide her eyes.

She watched the people around her. Wondering if they watched her.

Or if they liked to be watched too.

 

 

Wind whistled hair.
Cheeks sloughed by the pressure of the air.
Velocity fuelled power-limbs, super-charge around the track.
Muscles push through hairless, sweat slicked skin.
The spectators are hoarse with cheers and tears.
And the athletes thoughts are persevere, persevere.
The mums cry at the tennis player who wraps his mum in a victory hug.
The kids pick at the stadium sandy floor waiting for another exciting stadium wide roar.

Freckled forearms flexed in the dappled light.
The sun spilt through the leafy canopy.
Highlighting the hairs on his arm.
And his grin was broad as Buddha's.

GOLD

Naked.
Slick as wet otters.
Cut out, wonder-kind, bodies.Crackling with a super-synthetic swishy, swish.
The runner's second skin.
Straight and gold as sporting arrows.
Their heads flip back on concrete necks, running after their untiring legs.
The feet pegging through final legs.
Anerobic to aerobic and then they're spent.

All things change.
But their mass remains constant.
All things decay.
Yet their entropic value remains constant.