opens up like a wound, throwing dark green shadows onto the velvety moss pieces by the strongest oak trees. You ask me to touch the moss and accept it for what it is. You dictate my thoughts. "I am talking to you and you read me, all of me, read me read me read me"
How much closer can we get? Adam and me, Pennsylvania (Persephone, 1889)
Persephone would not hold a candle to Ada. Ada was statuesque, embodied the glaze of Natural Gallery flourish, you understand?
With an act, all is gone, we depart half-heartedly but with a bustle from a half-lived life and we stumble into new surroundings, we search in the dark for the piece of familiar knowing we are escaping the familiar like the plague, crawling like a crazed animal in the opposite direction, antler bone buried deep inside the red red earth, get me the hell out of here, we gasp for fresh air hoping to transport us back home while we flee home
You ask if I'm starved for art and we just stare at one another.
I say I'm just starving, and we both laugh.
That was presumptuous Paul, get out of my head.
We stare at the sky but all I see is your narrative pouring out of a very placid blue blue blue.
You, I'm talking to you. I'm reaching out
to
you
"Have you ever seen the inside of an orchid?" I ask you nervously in the car while we drive the coast and inch towards Los Angeles in heavy rain.
"Is it gorgeous?"
"No, it is like a million ants crawling from the smallest white fountain"
You shudder and shake it off but I entertain the image until I feel sick.
I crawl out of the car and throw up in the sand until my stomach sinks in and I feel the dark clouds cover the day. You light a cigarette and watch me get it together. The rocks, cooling off, contemplate in silence.
We don't have the time to recover from this because of the love. There is a thirst to keep going through the desert, to the centre of it all, to the smallest piece of meaning. You take my hand and I walk back to the car, ashamed and in love.
*
When Ada died, there was nothing left in England to explore. A desert, all a desert. One cannot remake an orchard.
A photograph tucked underneath Persephone's, in sly copy erased faded impertinent an imposter.
Ada and Ava, in the orchard, Oxford, 1881 (Maximilian)
*
We find a hotel room on the outskirts and you pull a white blanket over my tanned legs with the A/C going while you shave and cook some bacon and coffee. There is a copy of La Peste lying by the newspapers you brought from the car. Everything you do is sexy, and we fall asleep to the rain at midnight. Small pieces of water permeate my dreams, I wake up drenched in sweat and you're holding me tightly. I don't wake up until two days later when the California desert has swallowed up all my fears.
By the time I walk out into the parking lot, I am lighter and pure.
I don't mind the sun but nowhere around me can I, for the love of God, find
moss.
How much closer can we get? Adam and me, Pennsylvania (Persephone, 1889)
Persephone would not hold a candle to Ada. Ada was statuesque, embodied the glaze of Natural Gallery flourish, you understand?
With an act, all is gone, we depart half-heartedly but with a bustle from a half-lived life and we stumble into new surroundings, we search in the dark for the piece of familiar knowing we are escaping the familiar like the plague, crawling like a crazed animal in the opposite direction, antler bone buried deep inside the red red earth, get me the hell out of here, we gasp for fresh air hoping to transport us back home while we flee home
You ask if I'm starved for art and we just stare at one another.
I say I'm just starving, and we both laugh.
We stare at the sky but all I see is your narrative pouring out of a very placid blue blue blue.
You, I'm talking to you. I'm reaching out
to
you
"Have you ever seen the inside of an orchid?" I ask you nervously in the car while we drive the coast and inch towards Los Angeles in heavy rain.
"Is it gorgeous?"
"No, it is like a million ants crawling from the smallest white fountain"
You shudder and shake it off but I entertain the image until I feel sick.
I crawl out of the car and throw up in the sand until my stomach sinks in and I feel the dark clouds cover the day. You light a cigarette and watch me get it together. The rocks, cooling off, contemplate in silence.
We don't have the time to recover from this because of the love. There is a thirst to keep going through the desert, to the centre of it all, to the smallest piece of meaning. You take my hand and I walk back to the car, ashamed and in love.
*
When Ada died, there was nothing left in England to explore. A desert, all a desert. One cannot remake an orchard.
A photograph tucked underneath Persephone's, in sly copy erased faded impertinent an imposter.
Ada and Ava, in the orchard, Oxford, 1881 (Maximilian)
*
We find a hotel room on the outskirts and you pull a white blanket over my tanned legs with the A/C going while you shave and cook some bacon and coffee. There is a copy of La Peste lying by the newspapers you brought from the car. Everything you do is sexy, and we fall asleep to the rain at midnight. Small pieces of water permeate my dreams, I wake up drenched in sweat and you're holding me tightly. I don't wake up until two days later when the California desert has swallowed up all my fears.
By the time I walk out into the parking lot, I am lighter and pure.
I don't mind the sun but nowhere around me can I, for the love of God, find
moss.
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