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Eléa Sep 8
It starts with you
(we dont begin with a lie,
at least)

passing a bulb stolen straight
from the middle of a
(kids play football on a neon green carpet)
lily-lilting fingers slightly bent
cat-pads bristle and extend towards
to be attached
to be attached
to be attached
  to my face
I crawl at them, quick
     they play my skin

like paint that beats in drops of rain
From the spring of our shafted fountain-head

(lily pads surrounding, and the paving stones I invite you to, laughing to see your eyebrow crook
at all the sun around you)

and in the time it takes to think of a response
i've stapled a swing to the moon
just to
watch, how you watch me and
   be proud of
        how I
manipulate, the beaming

casting shapes from my shadows in rose and opals,
and ***, snakes and ballroom
on the rolling globe beneath us;

(We hover over, our heads together,

a millenia ago I deep myself in pavement mild
the buildings that keep secrets
of the vistas in rambled office parks
of a light that turns metallic and bright

to remind us of when to come

when ivy runs the ruins of concert halls
and you and I still walk the steps we made before
sombre leaping silver to the sky
tinkling a trail
of harlequin puppets
from our coat tail, sweeping :

with the promise that we will try.

So: another life, we sit on a sofa and smile drinking coffee a cold light outside and a bird on a naked tree, and it has been a year or maybe three, and still we are managing darling, we are doing it, we are still in love, and navigating every moment as if we always will be in and out of everything.
Eléa Aug 29
i had followed you so far
that we began to find groups
of words like
clusters of trees; growing bright
and full of
upturned lights
with the spaces in between as well
that get into branches, blank,
cutting out peices from
children's white;

(before they felt the time,
about being right)

here, our footprints secrete
star-spangled leaves on purple night

and reflect in increasing spirals
the distant lights
of office building Windows who
speak their sterile, asking insides in
slight proud, and slight
peices of : life :

what life really is

people on phones and skirts and and scratching foreheads, and scratching paper, and offering jokes like slightly drowning lotus flowers, and flirting; and when Christmas smells like paper clips;
all the things we would feel on the sides
of our bodies like slow sliding warmth
dipping orange,
as we walked around outside of them

making some new paths, taking, the light
they gave and creating, we think,
some sparkling land in insurrection;;

but got confused as to who
was following who eventually; when
the helter skelter goes down forever
we lost the top
with enough stepping back over footprints
in the snow: to hide the way we go
remember it snowed that one day when we lied together; and we were so in love i hardly had to look out the window; paris could have been covered in tiny breaking pools of reflecting light, and it wouldn't have mattered; because your arm had its weight
embedded on mine
leaves get crumbled if you, stamp on them enough
[we shouted at humpty dumpty right before he tipped his
fall { because
some thing inside us still believed in beauty }:
that testing breakability, has a tendency to
**** things
but we were too late, his mouth in an O of surprise as gravity
did it's thing
[it always does no matter how many times you
dreamt that
we could
; & so too eating up
the breadcrumbs that turned out;
in the end;
were of limited resource
and the spaces emerging magic from clusters of tree/words
were sunk again into the coded nets they
'd been in the beginning
[precisely; with intent, my dear with as little
expense towards ambiguity as they can
this memory necessary in all these humans
picked like pods screaming that it's
against their nature
intrinsic to the half forgotten instincts
cultivated and esteemed and afforded and
carried through
and blamed and stimied
consistently :
that one must never be crazy enough
to believe that one's art would
ever really
be reality
Eléa Aug 29
i'm running out of the time that was a moment ago interminable, endless, again
i saw you sitting in a white tiled gray-scale waiting dock in
the corner of the middle of where all the mustard-coloured
bus lines-line up
Eléa Aug 29
I fell in love for the first time in Texas, one of the most dangerous places in the world. Minds are blank and solid; bodies are fat and languid.

Where the the skies make clouds make beasts with big walrus teeth, heavy and grey and jaws too big; and yellow grass that meets rainbows who undulate, and the pavement behind it (oh consistently pavement, raining pavement) and stained sometimes with new rain right after it got hot for the first time and the smell is like planting your knees in wet soil; when there is a breeze in the autumn that just lifts up the hair on your knees, in the sun, and wildflowers line each truckstop street; the very first streets where I made myself see a Mondrian tree.

I had a boyfriend in Texas.
I could lift the faces of people off their heads like fossils from sand, could turn them around and figure with my finger every fraction of them of their smile of their grimace, turn each one upside down. I began to wonder if a person could be too happy, too happy, if there was a limit and  remembered, maybe, a person could go crazy - and wondered, why not?

I could feel the points of a star meeting at the ends of my limbs; I could feel a depth like a lily pad, boeing my bottom. I placated no one  -- except him, of course, over and over.

I met david stalking through the aisles of a shop, one day when I was a shopgirl and had yellow hair in curls, and fleshy arms, and an *** like a pillow under a turquoise skirt. He wears shorts and looks like a dork, walks short and slightly hunched, and he doesn’t look in your eyes, and you could think it was from shyness --  until he does look, and they’re so bright, you could tilt into going blind. (He’s averse to the image of all the people toppling over around him.) He has golden hair on his arms and sturdy wrists built by elegant, competent lines, pointing its hands into indicating something of art, maybe, or deeper than that, or this.


    “Is for horses”

    He tells me, seriousness straightening his brow.
Eléa Jun 29
i hide from you because you look prettiest in starlight
and i see you best from the

triangles who sit on the tips of
shadows in the
midsummer hedgerows
on the backside of england

but, you
didnt see me, so
i line ivy leaves with the glow
of squares of bathroom windows,

(we love them for light they
gave, inside
breathing breaks of
summertime glass; tripping mirrors
from their lips
shaped against their face
exactly how they is :

we Forget
they got a look that
from the street
striking naked, breaths of humidity :
(behind condensation she steps out
of a shower :
aware of how her hips move
thorough : making
theatre just in case
just as if she was certain
of someone's watching, she'd never have
the Force to break dimensions
in that way -- )


I might have been a wardrobe
sturdy, clunking
degrees of
spirals ornate;
collecting ticks from clockwork
each of the gears that
just - might miss
an - (added bit)
of mechanics fattening up
the edges inclining
on the
cold of space

the lock left open
we're shocked -

it looks so secret
but honest- -
you just gotta try it )

{i lie you know
we always did,
since we were five
and fingered a skeleton leaf,
and realised the world is
whatever one might say it is :

i lied of course
you've gotta find the key
one chance among
too many
too many that if you thought
of the possibility you'd go blind,
and for once, darling
you'd see everything}

but open
for you, for anyone,
to clamber into
all the way into
the inside of me

all of winter's
bright :

you forget the taste of dawn before it comes,
and her skin, the colour of clouds, pink
and blue and
shakes fresh and
frosted landscape
on barely risen peaks, points misted freckled and
running in time to
form all our history given -

(it's ancient and it's song just sounds like the mark
of birds pinning themselves against an autumn sky)

i'll keep it for you i'll find it or turn it into
the felt of the inside of the
jewelry boxes that live
huddled in
the back of me

beneath shoulder pads and
jigsaw puzzles and
lace eaten ruffles and
the ends of trouser-bottoms

and a silver moth and
one ladybird who (PEED on my hand)

;how dare it be so magic;
and // have excrement
just like me - ?

we place a notecard
of solid stubborn wonder
flipping memory
placed over
placed over

to keep all the time from
becoming disgusted] --

so i copy her spots and
pull a dress
from a hanger,
just especially
because i saw in a story book
that when you was a child your mum
had a tablecloth
smelling faintly of cat dust
and sunlight
and you imagined disappearing right into the black of its polka dot

and maybe i plant a hat (like a lampost)
that covers half your

(keep that side
for the special ones,
the ones who tell
piece of glitter
on your eye
can know
that your heart breaks every time
there's drop of diamond
shaped like rain
because, for you
there's a dragon inside

and darling --- we all know,
you just want to fly.

(we might crash into a mountain, it might hurt, we might fall all the way down; dont worry, there's snow at the bottom:

and if we ever need her, a woman who hides in
reflection of light from a pool like a mirror
a window

cast on the sides of caves
down in
the mountain; and

sometimes, for special reasons, she comes outside.)
Eléa May 1
i want a promise of sunlight before i leave i
never wanted something so much as a picnic with any of you
and why is it the mussels i carry in the crook of my arm,
we keep in plastic bins with
rice and spice
not enough for you

the years we sat together
on a park bench eating:
watching the clouds flash against the sky
in colours of pigeons and the taste of
the way the
the other

and breathe against me please
write your newspaper and coffee
against the curls of my toes that stretch into
our bedsheets

how easy it would be in my mind with toast
and butter
and alarm clocks toning into morning light
and your arm never leaving the back of the hairs on my
tilting side

not so much leaning
you understood; but an intention towards
making shapes of what you'd
expect, in your head,
when it changed

just enough for the force
of you to taste
blossoms blooming the
corner of my lips:

that you'd never have found; had i stayed; straight on

who'd ever have thought, there was never a problem
except of that of admitting
how much one was so loved by the other?
Eléa Apr 2
Only by knowing we had it right
from the start
could our hearts take the shape
of the shafts of golden light we made by
bouncing head-first
into the center of those sunflowers

i saw through flashing windows
on a train while the sky was breaking

On a hard summer’s day,
Where pick-up artists showed
their cards, grinning
knowing their art was never
so far from clowns; from  trapeze artists, swinging from
and there it is)- a whole circus tent, waving
acres of turning yellow

I’ve loved each one of you for all the same,
all different reasons
and it was not so diffcult,
in the end

the dust motes of your jeans
i rest my head against buying into
the smells of memories of collisions

And I stepped down an aisle with me
and you writing stories of our future
on the soles of my shoes:
the familar march, the dance i perfected
of jumping just ahead of what
might be said

Balancing ontop of my steaming train
The white of my dress leaning against
the swirling ***** grey
stealing its colours from the
neverending sky;
Trailing through the windswept hall

Time leaving pictures on the wall
Of silhouettes, our heads, profiles
moving slightly into smiling all
the images we stopped to forget,

simply again; it was only that i loved you more
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