Walking Out On Cornish Coastlines
I miss the soaring heart of 'travel', conjured in one word, like a
ball of wonderment and release from the existential cage. Finally, me
and my backpack, walking up paths of solitude - like salve to my
suppressed wounds. To walk together is necessary. To walk alone is
glorious. Circling eagles, in their pain, hungry on cold winter
mornings, yearning for flesh - they paint patterns on my sky.
Friendship
stays me and a tension is built between their love and my passion for
exuberant expenditure in ravenous madness on holy mountains. Together a
potent balm is made, like the rush of blood blotting out the agonies of
cold and loneliness. Why sit calm and stay, when in madness I live on
the rooftop of the world.
Glowing orange smiles
beckon to me in this bulb from from which I flower ecstasies. Ah, all
the world is put down. Your work. Your craft. Your crafted kindness
working on me. So nice and lovely and soothing - and necessary -
sapping the virility of me after a while. And I ask leave of you for a
moment, to skip, and piss on rocks and muse with dandelions about Plato
and Nietzsche. Both are necessary. Your fingers. Your hair. The
sunset. My passion to beat the dirt track and slip on loose rock, just
for the heck of it, and scramble up a bit, and laugh with the boy I once
was. To holler with seagulls.
If youth was eternal I'd smoke a
cigarette and ponder the perplexity of 'being', looking down at lapping
shorelines, like the curves of fingerprints moving to the rhythms of
life. And I would think of you there, on my grassy granite, held in the
arms of now, touched by your kindness still reaching out to me, and
energizing me to live alone for this moment, looking down on Cornish
flowers and looking forward to the ruddy Cornish smiles down at the tea
and scone shop.
