stuart

we make beauty
 
out of folded paper,
 
ink and kisses,         expectation and cigarettes . . . 

a catalogue and testament to long distance relationships
 
and journeys overseas.


 


cut-glass, britannic vowels read better when sloppy w/ multiple gin and tonics.
  
our eyes are blood shot.         your thighs are popping out 
 
through the seams of your bone-tight jeans. 
 
i sit here         amazed. unable to stand, 
 
the rising guilt of the sun takes a back seat to the open window and the morning bustle 
 
of south east london. 
 

 


this is our second wake-up call today. 
 

 


spliff-smoke         co-mingled with         the scent of cum
 
makes for a problematic punctuation of odours to an evening out.
 
the taste on your tongue is bitter and cloudy. 
 
you say: 
 

 


"i'm tired of making sense of this. of sweating bullets. 
 
of dirty sheets and men with mullets. 
 
i want you to kiss me---for real this time. 
 
i want you to show me you've forgotten all about him . . ." 
 

 


all spirits are a pound a piece at the club tonight.
  
all weapons, save one, must be checked at the door. 
 
all hearts         are to remain         
 
u n a t t a c h e d 
 
both in theory and in practice:         just as impossible as it sounds;
 
and conversation after coitus 
 
is highly discouraged for these very reasons. you don't know that
 
he waits in the wings with the coming seasons . . . 
 
your cock and your reason
  
should exist         as two separate entities at all times         should you wish to avoid
  
relational schizophrenia successfully.


 


these are the rules 
 
of remembering someone         so far away 
 
                that their voice echoes in the receiver 
 
before it bounces off your ear at the other end of the line.
 
but,
 

 


he makes beauty out of folded paper.
 
his words are forced to compete with so much:         the distance
 
across an ocean         tainted 
 
with capitalism, 
 
mercantilism, 
 
phallic conquest          in the name of your kings and queens;
 
the subjugation         of entire peoples         on the basis of 
 
culture and color---greed and ambition;
 

 


his words are forced to compete with so much:          the time it takes
 
to translate love into glorified cuneiform recognizable over the ages as
 
ENGLISH;                                                                                         the time between 
 
the declaration of initial intent and 
 
original sin.
 

 


and so, i tell you:
 
"i can't forget him---won't forget him"---
 
though, by my first crooked smile on american soil, i will seem to say so.
 
i'll be swallowed whole at the terminal gates,
 
chewed up and spit out 
 
to be manifest a changeling, gross, cross-continental thing:         
 
a slightly older human being,
 
but, supposedly, the same person. 
 
re-coded and declared at customs as: 
 
item: 
 
one. 
 
boyfriend of one year. 
 
gone:         for six months. 
 
designation:         unfaithful.
 
destination:       an apartment in my nation's capital.
 
purpose:        to fold an ocean in my mind and reconcile
 
 
who i was to him upon departure.
 
who i was to me upon arrival.
 
what i was to you throughout the duration.
 
who i thought i would be upon returning and
 

 


what we might become
  
when him i tell him 
 
about you.
 


 





written 3.28.00

• Chy Ryan Spain

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