materialism

This is not a document which describes the process
Of a journey. It is the process of a memory of that
Journey. Written not in tranquillity, for there is no
Tranquillity to be had outside those moments which
Even together we can struggle to find. So torn in
Pieces by the yin of the yan; the negatives which
Are married to the positive. Nothing blasé or easy-
Going in either of our souls, all the easiness has to be
Wrenched from the soil, dug out with bare hands, finger-
Nails laced with labour-sweat. Until we do unearth our
Nugget of tranquillity. When one or the other will gaze in
Wonder at their luck, that in spite of all something so
Perfect should be there, within touching distance. Neither
Mirage nor fantasy nor even a memory but a living
Thing, unpredictable, framed by the world, skin and clothes,
Toes and fingers, mind and body.

And there you are, seated
Beside me at a pub table in Hammersmith, talking about
Primeval cycles; and there I am, stepping through sheep-shit
On a Sussex path; and there you are, awake and asleep
Beside me as I drive; and there I am, turning lamb-
Burgers, and there we both are, in bed, reaching out to
Find one another there, beside each other, full of love.


20.06.05