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GARY CUMMISKEY
blue just like the sky

Dead bullets…wet streets in January early nightfall with darkness all around - the city alive with electricity, traffic, - I want her, I want you, go back to the memory of the Bride, just passing by you and your husband and children all innocent in the shopping centre, but neither of us acknowledging each other's presence.

Just stop in the city street with its icy blackness like red peppers green peppers warm milk and hot chocolate drinks, I have seen this before, beloved shot down in the gutter with sex, the statue with its cunt dripping blood, I like my reality stirred with milk and honey.

Step into the colours of Egyptian tomb with pizza and funny funky eros, see how they give non-stop relief from nervous tension and him shaking and dithering in Eloff Street, dick on the ready. Do not mix with murdered sheep or with the remains of children. The jet plane there is easy to swallow.

The cottage in suburbia keeps it hidden on the quiet, wet leaves stuck to the doormat and tarot cards collapsing from the bed to the floor. I'll read you your fortune, roll out the wisdom, get hand down between legs and slip finger under panties, gasping, don't let the dogs or children know - raging tension, hot buttocks and washing tray afternoon, sperm thighs, the sun turns black and bends over, some alchemical trick takes place in the hat, the river flows like juice between us, there will no longer be secret meetings or cocksucking in the car by woods, wash away shit in the basin, what am I doing? head to the book and pretend pretend, shoulder to the wheel, I'm a serious student, a well-behaved citizen, end of the good licks.

(Flight 646 - the air hostess's name badge falls down from her breast - her name is the same as yours…)

Fuck you Human Shit Investment Authority, last downfall hand up skirt and touch breasts, stroke cunt, put wedding ring in a safe place, hidden away, no prying eyes under shades. There is fire in the cinema of heart, it can go mad from now on flying over Europe, fall under the wheel of fortune. Everywhere I smell your cunt, messages never returned, days heavy with percussion and bad ash, winter day freeze, stalking the streets, no you, planes fly overhead.

In cottage, at side of lake, in parking lots, mad desperate fuck, your long-lost faked liar lover with the morning connection, wake up and the tarot cards no longer fall, everything is in its place, is simple and ordinary, better stop descending liar STOP naked cunt dripping you deserved this STOP no more under the trees in park nor more sliding under skirt feeling in elevator.

April breath heat to a two-week telephone call 'It's over, final', shock light bread river nearly caught lying over desk in office, a leap-frog shudder to the river's edge.

I watch your eyes behind glasses, small girl's fingers stroking cock through trousers in car, train light will emerge through tunnel song, weapons of deceit, fear and betrayal, spread cream on inner thighs so smell of sperm and juice is hidden, put panties straight to wash. Lazy angel, bored, mind slips, mind change, rush to lunchtime fuck, liquid blue eyes, dream of teeth and midnight buttocks.

Tracing fantasy through solitary walls and silent candle flames, dream on through books of study and flight, eyes dozing over Keats on Cape Town beach, ease your head on down…

Winter's leaves in icy streets slow walking through park and lost time. Bride of the Night breaking into day, spread forth in séance, azure gaze and harsh words: Leave, go back!

Words clutching to daylight use blue light azure broken dreams smoke on balcony with traffic rushing past in masterstroke of idiocy and dropped suitcases strolling timidly through suburban streets. Every day hide from the mocking knowing glance of landlady (no more lady visitor, slipped in and out clandestinely?), take your panties down and spank your buttocks till they sizzle, the computer screen smashed with your high heels, the broken-down lover in tears at the gutter.

Trying to trace the essence of you through memory, in your own home, your bedroom, wanting to fuck you in your marriage bed, no longer welcome even at the gate, I tell you…your photo kept between the pages of Neruda for three years now ripped, shredded, destroyed…my head moves to another realm, yet not free of the dream nor of the memory of when you came to me not wearing panties beneath your light summer dress, when you left you took them out from your handbag and slipped them back on

They were blue just like the sky.