Harold

It's impossible to let go of everything I know of you Harold
You are sand stuck upon the wet skin of my youth
A storm cloud glued to the hidden horizon
I know where you are bound- Southward and back again
You are always at odds, your last emotion so easily forgotten

Smiling with brow furrowed, questioning your own journey
Whether you write of bridges, view birds in flight, feel the electricity of storms
You feel misplaced, on the opposite bank without bridge or boat
O! Imagine what you could achieve with a boat?

Will I have the ashes of a Tennessee Williams to be thrown on my little spot of sea?
A black sun retreat to sit within, writing of my sexual voyages and broken towers?
O you tombless, drunken ghost, surely you can see me out the corner of hollow eyes?
You who remains colour blind, sitting, staring as sun throws knitted light through syrupy curtain

Harold, they are making black and white movies all about you now
Is their logic in this? Surely they are better off building a high statue for you
Setting you down on a beach somewhere in New Mexico, looking out over the horizon
Letting the birds roost upon your out-stretched arms

I read of a deal that is being discussed with that lousy prince of evil
The gulf of Mexico is to be parted and your tender body is to be found
In return the devil wants an aspiring poet, youthful, lusty and able
I will happily volunteer for you Harold, just remember me for what I was...

...A complete stranger, on the opposite bank, holding the "dice of drowned men's bones"...










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