I.
If your touch could liquefy The frozen music of architecture, I’d want to sit where the silence would fall. Seek the space in the seam Between white noise and daydreams: Breathe the breath before the applause.
So just hold me like you’d hold a pause.
Or a ‘fermata’, if you think you’re smarter, And feeling the vibe of a cheeky sonata: Those birds eyes can stop time. Bend it, Stretch it like the truth, Test it like patience Balancing on the peak of a heartbeat. Before the fall. The world viewed through a meniscus, A disc of warped physics. That tiny globe of still potential that floats above the keys – Or a thought Or a scene – Is the most electrifying place for your desire to be.
Can you feel it?
So trace the cracks in my facade That scatter like scars across a shattered visage in the sand dust. A modern Ozymandius. And tear down ten thousand minim rests No more, No less: Bubbling spheres of silence That I can lock like loose cannons in my chest. And in the absence of sound Hear the rhythm of something deeper – Something much cheaper – Because it’s totally free to feel that beat. The hidden spring That feeds a longing, Builds a shout – Makes you need to reach out.
And touch Just touch Something.
II.
But I read that Rodin Smashed his own sculpture’s hands When they pulsed with a life of their own. He said: “No one part can be greater than the whole.” Now there’s a ridiculous goal. Because in the shadow of legend The charged ghosts of these hands tremble With something approaching sublime.
But why won’t you hold mine?
Sublime, subliminal, These phantom limbs are something criminal, It’s a pain that burns in absentia. A void contract, devoid of contact –
But maybe not this time.
© Georgina Barley 2015