Whoever you are, you want more words, don’t you?
You want more images.
You want more wings and breaths,
more stones and rivers,
more gloves and roses,
more Celtic boats,
more hands and eyes and mouths.
Well, I don’t have any of those tonight,
only inarticulate howls and tears
and abstract nouns like that one in the title,
and fear,
and rage,
and
space.
You want art? Then give me what I want!
It’s simple enough.
Without having to plan, organise, email, text,
sit up late creating an event on Facebook
Without having to join a club
pay for a weekend retreat
or write a thesis
I’d like to
relax around a table
or a fire
with four or six or eight intelligent men and women
who know how to sit still for a while
turn the radio down
and have a real conversation,
not just stupid jokes —
and for once I’d like not
to be the last to leave,
driving all this way
wide awake alone
I’d like to to have a long talk
with a bright, involved, unprejudiced adult,
preferably face to face, but online or by phone would do
I’d like someone — anyone! — to invite me
for lunch, coffee, a movie, a band,
instead of me inviting them
and I mean a definite date, not just
let’s do lunch sometime
then wait for me to decide and call and set it up
I’d like to ask someone to my house
and have them say, yeah, sure, I’m free,
instead of, sorry, I’m busy,
I’m doing too much, working too hard, maybe
next month
when things are quieter
I’d like to ask someone to my house
and have them actually come
instead of texting at the last minute with
sorry, something’s come up, or
sorry, I forgot, I have another appointment today, maybe
some other time
I’d like someone to drop in,
like Winnie-the-Pooh,
for no reason but happiness.
They can text or phone first, if they like,
since that’s the 21st-century protocol.
Give me any one of those this week
and I’ll craft you a poem about anything you like —
Gaza or Iraq or Canberra,
Barack Obama, Dame Edna, orangutans —
I’ll sit up late doing whatever research is necessary —
solar panels, public transport, eco-villages,
cranes and smog and mines
But — and maybe this is the problem —
I want to add to my identity, not subtract.
I don’t want an owning steering arm for my shoulders
a gold ring for my cunt
or an ivory tower for my voice…
and no more laundry, please…
Just show me a soul
whose colour tones with mine — mine’s purple —
whose song concords with mine —
mine likes rain
more than sun, night
more than day, walking
more than running, drums,
bass, guitar…
and words.
Now here come the really naked lines,
the lines I’m scared to write.
And here comes that sentimental word again,
the one everyone believes
but no-one will profess.
And the two words my mother said
never got anything.
I’m gonna use them twice.
Are you ready?
I want a soul to share music and poetry with.
I want a soul to sing with.
Did you get that?
Yeah?
If you make it a beautiful man
I’ll love him with my body too,
wholeheartedly, abandoning physical boundaries,
with libations of touch and affection,
but without
ownership
or
jealousy.
Give me that and I’ll give you volumes:
cities and countries and voices,
rains and roads and nails,
coats and gloves and roses,
oceans and mangoes and mead,
dark trees and poets’ moons…
even real birds.
I could do you a
cockatoo galah magpie raven poem.
There are plenty of birds here. They tell me
when the birdbath is empty.
They shit on the patio table
and knock at the windows.
They sing their songs.
They burn my eyes with your questions.