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Rod voided In my body the engine ticking over s it cools

Работа добавлена на сайт samzan.ru: 2015-07-05


Keys in the ignition: a tree grew and was blown over in the storm. I walked to it in the space between the road and the caravan. In the frost, leaving footprints to melt when the sun came up. It wasn’t light yet, but you could already hear the traffic. I walked in a spiral to set myself apart from them.

Carrying the field on my back, wound in motor parts. I am returning home to a house that is drowning in vegetation. I understand now that this is where the roads converge to end. After the concrete is cracked by thin blades of grass, pushing for the light.

At the base of the white house, the damp clings and climbs, rendering the walls greening, ascending to the windows, to clutch over the roof and pull the structure back again to earth. The roads pothole like a thinning hairline; the broken glass in the verges wears smooth and can no longer cut the skin. All of these edges will be lost, given time.

Greening on the car windows; how the moss grew fast, pressed against glass by the motion. Each exit untaken, each side-road avoided. In my body, the engine ticking over as it cools. I am of this opinion that my heart is not my own.

Through bushes and through briars

I lately took my way

All for to hear the small birds sing

and the lambs to skip and play

All for to hear the small birds sing

and the lambs to skip and play

I overheard my own true love

His voice it rang so clear

Long time have I been waiting for

the coming of my dear

Long time have I been waiting for

The coming of my dear.

Closing my eyes under the water, letting the white house recede and the road so far under my wheels. I hold thistles in my palm and fill my shoes with nettles; I fill my ears with petrol and swallow oil to keep time passing by without friction.

You said that the green grave shall see you. Instead I collected twigs and branches and pieces of old metal and made a nest for us, to sit out the winter and wait for the spring.

A tree grew and was blown over by the storm. Long time have I been waiting for the moss to grow upon us. I have exchanged our speed for permanence. In time, your car will stall and you will return to pull the branches from my body and take root alongside me.

You to me are birdsong, metal fatigue. The tearing of the chassis, ivy chokes the exhaust. I curl your fingers around the headlights, I offer spores to your damp hands. We release the clutch and separate in the grey light, dandelion seeds in the slipstreams, carry to the distant towns and cities, to the coast, out to sea, out to the water.

I drew myself on to a tree

A tree that did look green

Where the leaves shaded over us

We scarcely could be seen

Where the leaves shaded over us

We scarcely could be seen

I sat myself by my true love

Till he began to mourn

I’m of this opinion

That my heart is not my own

I’m of this opinion

That my heart is not my own

Carrying you on my back, wound in motor parts, carrying you home – placed in the passenger seat, fragile cargo to be thawed by the engine. All for to hear the small birds sing at the wheel, as the leaves dance like sweet wrappers on to the windscreen, dance, stick.

Sometimes I am uneasy

and troubled in my mind

Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love

and tell to him my mind

Sometimes I think I’ll go to my love

and tell to him my mind

And if I should go to my love

my love, he will say nay

If I show to him my boldness

he'll ne'er love me again

If I show to him my boldness

he'll ne'er love me again

I lately took my way back to that place, where we sat hidden by the trees, the car parked away from sight, hidden from the road, and took root. Our branches were all a tangle and wet in the dew as the sun cut the frost into streams. We slept the day in the forgotten caravan and later, when you had to return to the road, I slept on until the grass had grown over my body.

I cannot think the reason

Young women love young men

for they are so false-hearted

young women to trepan

for they are so false-hearted

young women to trepan

For they are so false-hearted

young women to trepan

So the green grave shall see me

for I can’t love that man

So the green grave shall see me

for I can’t love that man

Soil on my back, wound in your parts, carrying me to seed. The spores of the cars are unable to settle, instead we bind our fingers together and push aside the tarmac, stain the white house with greening. I am returning to the house that is drowning in the fumes of stalling engines.

In the grass, a rusting bathtub, flytipped and flyblown. I was unsure if, when I climbed inside to wait for the chilling of the air, whether the water would close in above me. In this, the noise of the cars recedes. In this, you can hear nothing but the mould growing the spores in the air, lodging upon the plastic and metal, the gentle death of the now and its reclamation by the past. When the engine is muffled, the thoughts have space to sound instead. You can hear them speeding past, thrown from the windows like sweet wrappers, dance in the slipstream of a passing truck, stick to the trees.

You stood in the shadow of the white house with your back to where the old road was vanishing under grass. I knew you saw through the render and brickwork to a time when this would all be swept away.

The birds all drive in the dawn, you can hear them sing at the wheel.

Love is the moss grown over the windscreen

It is the abandoned bathtub

harboring

unseen new life

It is a tree grew and blown over by the storm

It is the leaves

in the slipstream

It is traffic that cannot stop itself

It is the footprints melting in the sun

Our love

Our love

Our love is like all of this

It is in the gentle death

of the now

and the reclamation of the past

and the reclamation of the past

Love is the moss grown over the windscreen; it is the abandoned bathtub harboring unseen new life; it is a tree grew and blown over by the storm; it is the leaves in the slipstream; it is traffic that cannot stop itself; it is the footprints melting in the sun. Our love is like all of this; it is in the gentle death of the now and the reclamation of the past.




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