MY DAY WITH JACK
Vapour trails fade past the daylight moon, hot fox blood from the night before burns on the tarmac, deep within trusted veins mended by the bandage that fell into the dust on the floor surrounding the bench where we first met.
No Dharma here, only a scent of a smell I could taste, yes, that smell that gets everywhere, mint, mint, mint, ripened vegetables and budding flowers at the open back door of the lodge. And there was Jack, sitting on the back step, hunched and ruffled, a mug of night old whiskey keeping him warm along with the paisley blanket I borrowed from my Aunt last Friday. His glasses hung from the hook of his nose while he translated poems from ages past, a wistful phantasm in my morn, a bucolic bloom of colour in the sparse cottage, my bohemian paradise.
Tea from tin cups and a tranja stove, coffee drank from the smallest pan I own. Breakfast: Bread rolls I bought from the train station on my voyage here, eggs taken from the hen's nest on the farm next door. Poached.
Old books stacked as stools and a cold steel bath in front of the hearth waiting for us to bathe in his steamy waters, water we will all share. Single paned glass frosted with condensation allowing thick planes of yellow light into the room.
Evening time I set the honest home fire burning, there we chatted and rolled ideas of being free, free from constraints, sex, from work and money, being able to find peace in a place of transcended beauty, a place of expression, creativity, solitude, family, brotherhood, self reliance, community, dreams, being well fed, well hung, nature, good health, drunk, sober, pets, clothes, nakedness, poetry, positive religion, film, cinema, cinematic landscapes, vistas, mountains, forests, blades of grass, insects, breakfast, cold morning showers, beards, shaving from streams, drama, quiet.
Back in the beginning, in the roots of dissent, of bohemia, communism, marxism, pointless political banter missing the bigger picture still.
Water slewing through stone, pathways of tumbling waves, sea foam, harems of nightmares swathed in decaying pleasures.
Smoking weed from pipes grown in the heather on the heath, oh little brother! Oh big sister! Listen to the mysteries I have placed at the crux of this, of all of the people I've screwed, will screw, does it matter if when I lie alone and hold only myself that the suffering does not stop?
Sunflares on my mottled dry skin surf the wash over my browning bones. Japanese drawings, Chinese tea, vodka, whiskey, English roses drawn on to the face of my ecstasy, lutes from Tehran swarming over the darkness from my adopted culture.
Where are the ones here about me? My contemporaries? The ones with whom I can Howl, sing sweet Haikus to the mother at the mouth of some distant home, a lighthouse painted cherry red and white, made of cheap concrete standing proud upon an island of rock, proud and true.
That was my day with Jack.
Vapour trails fade past the daylight moon, hot fox blood from the night before burns on the tarmac, deep within trusted veins mended by the bandage that fell into the dust on the floor surrounding the bench where we first met.
No Dharma here, only a scent of a smell I could taste, yes, that smell that gets everywhere, mint, mint, mint, ripened vegetables and budding flowers at the open back door of the lodge. And there was Jack, sitting on the back step, hunched and ruffled, a mug of night old whiskey keeping him warm along with the paisley blanket I borrowed from my Aunt last Friday. His glasses hung from the hook of his nose while he translated poems from ages past, a wistful phantasm in my morn, a bucolic bloom of colour in the sparse cottage, my bohemian paradise.
Tea from tin cups and a tranja stove, coffee drank from the smallest pan I own. Breakfast: Bread rolls I bought from the train station on my voyage here, eggs taken from the hen's nest on the farm next door. Poached.
Old books stacked as stools and a cold steel bath in front of the hearth waiting for us to bathe in his steamy waters, water we will all share. Single paned glass frosted with condensation allowing thick planes of yellow light into the room.
Evening time I set the honest home fire burning, there we chatted and rolled ideas of being free, free from constraints, sex, from work and money, being able to find peace in a place of transcended beauty, a place of expression, creativity, solitude, family, brotherhood, self reliance, community, dreams, being well fed, well hung, nature, good health, drunk, sober, pets, clothes, nakedness, poetry, positive religion, film, cinema, cinematic landscapes, vistas, mountains, forests, blades of grass, insects, breakfast, cold morning showers, beards, shaving from streams, drama, quiet.
Back in the beginning, in the roots of dissent, of bohemia, communism, marxism, pointless political banter missing the bigger picture still.
Water slewing through stone, pathways of tumbling waves, sea foam, harems of nightmares swathed in decaying pleasures.
Smoking weed from pipes grown in the heather on the heath, oh little brother! Oh big sister! Listen to the mysteries I have placed at the crux of this, of all of the people I've screwed, will screw, does it matter if when I lie alone and hold only myself that the suffering does not stop?
Sunflares on my mottled dry skin surf the wash over my browning bones. Japanese drawings, Chinese tea, vodka, whiskey, English roses drawn on to the face of my ecstasy, lutes from Tehran swarming over the darkness from my adopted culture.
Where are the ones here about me? My contemporaries? The ones with whom I can Howl, sing sweet Haikus to the mother at the mouth of some distant home, a lighthouse painted cherry red and white, made of cheap concrete standing proud upon an island of rock, proud and true.
That was my day with Jack.