PEOPLE LIVE HERE by RISE AGAINST Poem by Murray Taylor
...We weren’t ones for cliché/Unless performed ironically./Weeks drift by,/The comfort of familiar phrases,/Of gestures and faces...
...We weren’t ones for cliché/Unless performed ironically./Weeks drift by,/The comfort of familiar phrases,/Of gestures and faces...
well-stocked op shop—/she sifts thru clothes racks/to find/an alternative/while I scan CD racks
Later, it’s six of us at a workmate’s one-room apartment, watching videos, drinking, talking. He and I sit on the bed, a purring cat between us. Kitty’s tail flicks against my thighs as he strokes one end, I stroke the other, our hands sometimes touching: poor kitty a conduit for the swollen energy between us.
It’s a rhythm one could argue is difficult to not slow dance to and, in the sun and in love, I lifted her hand into mine and we danced together.
Everyone has a playlist of pain, the songs that bring the sometimes forgotten, partly processed pieces of our past to come rushing to the surface, raw, to be felt again.
Where I went to school, boys – men – didn’t dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity.
The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.
Like a million fools before me, and a million more to come as sure as night follows day, I leave my virgin emotions unspoken, expecting osmosis to be a go-between.
No shaking shoulders and no audible sobs for this public crying needs to be invisible for the grief mask to be effective. "Don’t let the sun catch you crying", sings Gerry with his Pacemakers.