Magda

Between the silence of lips along the slide where kids had slid or one along that black-lined -strewn, -seeming, -tickling, -prickling, -pricking, star-lit avenue, I felt the inner piece of you, your closed trueing, beeing, flower that sucks the honey like seed, much denied by your rebel, your mind, foggy, hazy, bare-lit like a Berlin fifties street, there, I felt your deep stream, your pale electric ultra-violet of proto-mind, of bare-lit self, in that private and slick of silk: that cream-mind – though I know you know, in your cream-midst, that a leathered fist deftly holds this, yet another, prey-bird’s tether and string, his riddled and riddling eyes yet silent-shot with infection of heritance and thought-vice, while your song, your sung, is flung through equal bars that we, your seekers, have made and make for you   Still, yours is the spreading constellation star-struck, -stricken, that perfect peace, that fortune, that liquid piece of rhythm expressing, holding tight  - that, yes, circles of being, teaching, history, that infection of past, retraining, a pale, deep subtle of violet light   Yes, I am Egypt to your Roman, germain and silent, like  your Turk, taken in the silence of lost, half-forgotten night, I am scheming Jew to your easy Venetian, a Montagu to your Capulet, I, a Capulet to your Montagu, your arms once uplifted as you let me slide things away and up you, a sonnet, all 14 lines round this, my in-peering eye, your Stazi, your mechanic, tight-squeezing your sleepy buds, raising into rising being, surprise and wince in your eye and breath; blotch and arse-face mechanical, I am the you you never hoped to meet ... that big uneasy question ...   I am how difference meets and melds, and they meet in me when they meet in you ... even in that silent, lonely flat that sits and broods like a cell of cells in a Gulag, where the grass sits perfect waiting for wind and breeze that never comes, near that wide and streaming  river that flows silent as the night in the deep of sunlit days, whose breasts sit in folds ...   I am big-head and humility, meek and idle mild and pride, and price waiting to be unpaid, yet and so, I am vengeance, dressed as love and other way around, and am I am when I am in you.   I am, now, and I thank you, even and in spite, though I am not worthy to be your germain, your due, your Capulet, your disdaining Montagu, your passion due, your scales, your mechanic, your mechanical, your God, your power, your light, your shit-storm, your enclave, your ghetto, your slave – even, as you release the hawk and let him go into the moon-sipped void, with precipice and god-head’s reflection gone, knowing only the unelected self ... peace, where no caged birds sing ...   but still, and I don’t know why, in the grave of ticking night, in the silent Cyclops’s eye of mind, I put my jealous palm along your lips, your line of flower, and you raise your brooding thumb and fingers, from your side, delicate and precise, and hold me there.