A spoken word piece from the project A Search For a Golden Sun by Peter Mead.
Visit the project @ www.searchforagoldensun.com
-- Original music kindly contributed by John Lemke.
Shapes In the Walls
I’ll find you…Noisy fucking idiots, everywhere my shutting-eyes fall.
I miss you. My body misses you turning on a hard mattress and I can’t tell if I wish I’d never gained your higher ground, seen the heights of these feelings from a ceiling of clouds for the fact that everything, my whole life feels diminished when I return home again. But the room for reverie is razed so I’ve no choice but to build my hovel on the trampled unholy ground, amongst the rusted canisters and a burning earth. Inebriated monkeys swarm the bulbous mounds, screeching and grabbing their garish balls and cocks, and chattering so loudly my skull would split if it hadn’t already hardened to calloused bone and rotten wood, I would.
Above the space two days ago or a month or another life away two white pigeons gusted on vortices across the volume of an empty square between grey monuments, on wings that caught the air so they literally swam on the wind in silent solace. And I felt you there, in their eyes, and their chariots were clouds.
But below a street bellowed obnoxious names, watching golden liquids go into mouths and almost immediately stain khaki trousers dark green patched; and there’s too much piss to prevent a deluge of urine from flooding the city. I’m honestly worried what we’ll do when it reaches the ceilings and caves in the walls. Caves in the walls? I know you left strange shapes in the walls. In the halls wolves howl without recourse to their saviour, you are the concubine of carnivores and ravens tear at the windows, let them loose to garnish my eyes with their beaks in the storm they have garnered.
Come to me in the corners of a dream, awake I tried to cling to the fleeting feeling of freedom and safety when we met under coursing cumulus curling off the purple hills, storm clouds moaning with deep tongues, whales in the waiting sky punctuating my rapt gaze of you with a retina-synchronous flash of distant lightning. Smelled the scent of flame and fervour, gods fighting for you, I’ll cater to you, shape a hollow for your rain, take my collar in these changed fingers and brace against the crazy squalls with eyes all asquint against the hail until you embrace me. Embrace me tenderly, take me, remember the dawn when you made me cry, when gulls bobbed bashfully on the pinker waters as the sun rose. You are my sun, caught on the gentle river and reflected a hundred thousand times as the day waited and secrets grew in the only time they can find a moment to. Before alarm clocks careen obnoxious. Before the tv set’s boxes cock their hammers and fire blunt bolts into the minds of men! Over and over again.
But ghosts bide their time in the formless and sphinxes wait to stretch their limbs in the deeper deserts. And I’ll wait for you with the foxes, as fine as Jaguars, biding and bidding until all are risen to kindle the fire that will burn the city of sticks in furnaces, kilning the windows molten; will turn a lens of perfect imperfection and focus the sunlight hidden in the timber, the purifying fire of enlightenment, a chorus with the lightning’s ebb, focus to a single torchlight pure as the seed from a dandelion.
And it will settle on your face and I will find you there, revealed as you are transcendent, perfect. And we’ll dance to the sea settling on the sand and the sound of shingles turning circles in chill mornings, humming to each other smiling.