How coarse the street-piano’s language appears,
how brutish and dumb
when spavined hands perform ugly
permutations in the air;
conjuring that beastly Autumn,
right before the rain.
Our summers came wet, too;
blistering light which made
eyes – more accustomed
to wooden candles at 2.A.M –
contract and convulse; the impudent clouds’ crossing
of distant mountains and crashing in amongst the true
beauty of our evening walks in the park.
We went in search
of beauty, beauty
that might explode your chest like an
obese heart and send the pure attack
of creativity through the tenuous ventricles and the ugly aorta
to the constant motion of your lips,
and the sadistic conjuring of fingertip callouses;
that finger-picking made your body mad,
like all the punches I’ve thrown make me
I promised, in Summer, that I’d stop aiming for the throat;
when I never asked for any promises;
and give you no chains, our goldfinch red-faced
embarrassed, framed by your own human purity
meeting the angelic blood I’ve left on brick walls
like puzzle pieces
around Mesnes Park.
Or like those Tetris pieces, perhaps;
all lined up and orderly awaiting
the last fierce rage or late-night weariness
to clear the board.
I used to go drinking a lot. I used to sit in the covered spaces of Mesnes Park and empty whiskey down my throat and didn’t tell anyone. It became a regular thing – every week or two, I’d sit in the shadows when it rained or when the sun wrapped the park and drink cheap shit that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone.
I’d like to look back and say it was horrible. That I could regret any of it and wish I’d spent the time practically. Learning to code or something like that. But I don’t regret it. Given the chance, and a little sunlight, I’d go back to the Park three years ago and drink until the park swam and the laughter of children echoed even over the roar of my headphones.