Elegy 1

Elegia Prima, Anno Aetatis 21

dusty

A poetic sense of memory
just as if you’d be
lighter and less factual if
tonight you lay with me

A dusty nowhere highway
and a running little girl
who peers into the headlights
through a single hanging curl

sparkles

sparkles...
11:46 p.m. :: 2003-10-07

My best friend Kat died on Saturday night. For those of you who didn't know, now you do. For those of you who didn't know her - you missed out. You would've one day heard of her, about her or met her somewhere in the world. Because she sparkled so. Because everywhere she went she carried with her a warmth and a fire that burned so brightly if so desperately short. She will never come back to us, because she has not left. She lives and burns in each of us here today and the thousand people who wondered 'Who was that girl in red?' Whether it was in a tutorial, a performance, a speech, a party, a shoe shop or a quiet cafe made louder by her presence - you felt her everywhere she was. Everywhere she had been. She was our Kat. A thousand tiny facets kept her shimmering everyway you looked at her - like one of her oh so precious diamonte's. And sometimes though we feel like wailing, though there are questions that will never be answered, we know that she's the best dressed angel there is, with pink feather wings and a trail of glitter just her own. We will miss you honey, we will keep going for you, for each other. Because it's what you would want and it's what we will do - she's ours now, to carry round, to fall back on, to laugh with, to cry with. She was our Kat and she sparkled so.

LaScala

Venice

Naked. Bread and wine laid out.

olden-time coin stacked neatly

in a struggling pile.

The fan’s pulsing shadows keep

bow-string time as lower chords

sow the whole divine plan together -

out the window, down the long

Via Garibaldi, plunge through streets,

twisted markets, stunted lanes and

nameless bridges - urgent seeking

thrusting

some repose

the fan brings you back, striking

at first in its fits and inducing

haze (like something in your eyes

is broke)

incapacitated, solid, melted chords

drip off the speakers, seep into your

ears

Help him, he must hurt so

How does he transcribe it all –

ah that chord

such agony

such pain

layers build chasm

mine

tears

the soft hum of the fan as

the end slides near, why

where, crucified

as, father.

Victoria

Brighton to London

different voices in the Lavender,

I have many

but there’s too much –

yellow flowers interrupt

and many more than leaves

blur past your widow

and suddenly next to you

someone taps your shoulder

and stutters out of sleep

to quiet clamoring

insistent

Victoria!

No not yet

Settle

Flop over your seat and rest

until someone locked inside

bangs on the cell’s borrowed door,

clang a pot on stone until

your fingers bleed –

Victoria!

soon, soon.

there’s something about those

places that I hate,

be it the fluorescent lights

or the endless rows of shopper’s

specials, lazily intruding on your stroll –

count yourself lucky to see me back

again,

this isn’t customary your know

this isn’t fair

how did you link it all together this

time,

before the song is sung

and timid swans staked out

in fields laid waste to the sun

some intrusive effort

mumble Victoria!

just let me go

it’s too…

let me

So this is where we’ve left us?