A toast to Solaris, and an illustration by Maria Makeeva
I quit the bs that day.
My job at the music harvester.
It couldn’t last. And it rained deep heavy August.
I swapped hearts with a lion, a leopard, a beaver, a cadaver, a sky, an orchard, the news, a job, a shadow.
The most honest scent is made from chaos, and then there is the beguiling of the herd, the insular way of touch upon silhouette, where all strikes explode, unforgiving in transformation.
Heavy and framed. Between each red drop I walked, as if dancing and walking at the same time. The reason I quit? Well I was a man from no-where here. No where at all. No connections. No twists away from the street. The street had his and her likeness made from a mirror. I had my likeness from no-where apart from the wilderness.
And I was always sad in a way when I returned home. Mostly because the city had excepted me. Mostly because the wildness never leaves you.
And you can imagine a train growling. The coaches. In echoes. The planes. And I had worked so heavily for so many years that all I knew was work. As I do now. The strip of unamazed street is called a field. There are stars in the rain. I work my way around the city, still wearing the uniform. I work underneath the geese, sing to the geese, sing to our shadows, to and fro.
I loosen each button hymn, maybe three, say to the grey, and say to the time. Then hear a call in my pocket a few seconds on, since there’s no one turning up for work anymore. I go back to my original compulsion, that, unless you do what’s in your DNA, you’re lost. Poems and past-times. Luck and the river. The calling great heap of clouds above the city is hidden now, as I am not, the cctv camera lives of disturbance made from smokes and a hip flask you bought me.
I go north west south east. End up in July. End up taking a different job that shatters the job before. I walk for several weeks or seconds but at least admit the fury, the flesh and the clay, the most diminishing way that time combats bone, and then becomes wilder as it grows, unlike a life made from birds flying in the horizon. By the rugged ground we tug.
By the tattoos in the atmospheres made of flesh.
I take a deep down flight in a boat, then, you come too. Then. I am only less wicked than a poem written by a security guard.
So many greens bust, I grab at the water, call it a glass, call it a fly buzzing near my canvas. Then I find a Jupiter grace within our dance. Some call it murder. The paint moves uncannily, sojourning and matching the falling steam of September outside.
I work a few moments more… Then. Ask which canvas screams. And a dumb idea comes, in the paint that is, that where your arse sits down on my bed corner. And you’re busy undressing. That absolutes exist.
Same as ghosts and muscle, same as warmth and the lessening grip.
I’d tell you that all of my dreams snake away around your arse, because they ignite them, but then that’d be tomorrow.
I learn from your attire that it is night. And that, where odourless days pour crimson elsewhere, male and female has always taught each other, that both are.
So gone are my injuries, each of our birds non-reliant on poetry, dream, chaos, dusk, drive, job, or any other synonymy of spirit. I breathe. I sit on the edge of our bed. Light a cigarette. Sparks of the laughter hit the duvet. My hand pats them out.