Suburban mother, neat, ash-blonde, divorced,
might pause beneath a Bedford bookstore awning,
then check her list - lasagne, liverwurst ...
today pilates, Thursday, coffee morning.
One week is like another, which is fine
(note on the fridge -- "collect new reading glasses").
She'll pass on Starbuck's (have you SEEN the line?)
The bovine bustle of the middle classes.
Ten years ago, I struck like Typhoon Trevor,
intense and strange. Endearments and demands
brought whiff of chaos. "Picket fences never
restrained me!" But I left with empty hands.
She went for bourgeois bland, for safety's sake,
and never sees what's churning in her wake.
I wake up in a bath of sweat
I am late starting my journey
Weightless clothes hide my being
Protect the skin from reality, my reality
The garage door shuts up in a rearview mirror
There is nothing else but emptiness
The rose bushes prune themselves
For an artificial Californian winter
Dislocated trees pretend to whither genetically
Along the street I slide encapsulated in soundproof
I ride in a bath of distorted forms
Cannot figure out why the street ends up in stairs
I merge in an one-way freeway with ends of marine layers
Curious eyes greet somber, slow and mute police lights
I am finally free to fly and collapse in the Pacific
Slapped by wreaths with my name in purple
*
A three year old with ash blonde hair jumps up her beach towel
She runs towards the ocean in an excited déjà vu
I grab me with my two little hands and smile at my regenerated youth
An obsessive dream re-occurring - our street ending up in stairs…
Again and again…
I wake up in a bath of sweat
I am late starting my journey
Weightless clothes hide my being
Protect the skin from reality, my reality
The garage door shuts up in a rearview mirror
There is nothing else but emptiness
The rose bushes prune themselves
For an artificial Californian winter
Dislocated trees pretend to whither genetically
Along the street I slide encapsulated in soundproof
I ride in a bath of distorted forms
Cannot figure out why the street ends up in stairs
I merge in an one-way freeway with ends of marine layers
Curious eyes greet somber, slow and mute police lights
I am finally free to fly and collapse in the Pacific
Slapped by wreaths with my name in purple
*
A three year old with ash blonde hair jumps up her beach towel
She runs towards the ocean in an excited déjà vu
I grab me with my two little hands and smile at my regenerated youth
An obsessive dream re-occurring - our street ending up in stairs…
Again and again…
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