Words written in water

- exert from ‘Nu-n, When on high’

When it ends, do you cling on and into memories of meeting, of green lights, where air parts, just to let them breathe into you. Love peppers the skin, in wisdom unable to be given. the knowing of living memories// or just, the knowing of living.

We all live in the memories of others// we lie like beds of salt beds under dead fish, to keep fresh, feelings that have tired of breath. Perhaps the fish gasps a final strewful, flaps a fin when the hook has nailed its head, nicks its mouth— but still dead. Still a memory bored of breathing — Not as easeful as the silent swimmer; Its gills collect water from the crisp of the moon. bites the wave with plankton, and paints the corals with pastels, as it wades its gate through seaweed licked by solar reflections. A memory that stills in motion, sits on honey like cayenne pepper, scattered sea salt, spanks like a rubber band, and ungracefully sinks like a cracked egg into boiling water.

Memory coalesces Wisdom, a dream, that cannot be imparted — the wadeful mover — a memory learnt from the mind, equivocated in the breast of the body. Otherwise, just a notion, lacking concreteness, lacking motion. A memory opposed to the way of the water finds its fins dragging, belly up, fins aimlessly burning through sunflower oil. Not the one with eyes like palms. Who’s vision lines the bed with coral — who, liaises with ornamented colours, like marbles painted with violet// hue is a texture that makes silk’s appearance rough// a being you can see the outsides through the insides of. it moves through the dead, through the fish with a hook in its head, through dead bodies, through the breasts of dead bodies, through the sand of time — it moves through the tartness of milk, within and around the arrow made of wet sand, through textures and colours - wraps round her eyes like sticky velvet, it trickles through oesophagus, bathes itself in honey then drowns itself in tar. It moves though boredom, and boredom’s feet, and boredom’s fate and is within and around its palms, the tongue of the universe// it licks and is licked by others, it sits in motion rolls through memory, is the pulse of sound// it chooses the dream, the nitrogen fuelled air, that sweetens the nostrils — or — it chooses the oil, the fool follows — the wanderer wonders, observes and walks the silver lining coveting the clouds. Drifts in and out unscathed by sulphites, it swallows the memories used to colour corals, quiet itself in a state of blue and gold, folded and etched onto skin in black ink. It’s crocheted in orange and green, bends memory with water and water with memory, and disguises discontent with colour// no matter — the mirage of nameless bodach’s, no matter the swarm of faceless phantoms. The fish lays its palms open to suck diamonds through its centre. creases that speckle the palm with motive, its hands move within and without// sculling the water in circular motions// through the moss, through the lilies and oceans, through the roots of a tree that speaks in mythic femininity. Eyes — planted on its soles, planted in its skull, in the dust particles that collate over storms// watch it dance in circular currents. It cannot be lost, laced with experiences of chaos, it is filleted and is still able to be// retaining its capabilities as it moves inwards and outwards, lulling in its mind history. Without its school it is still able to swim, to pin through the chest of its lover, examine its parts; gain, in cells, the wisdom parading its lovers veins. And speak truth of the ambrosia custard of the afterlife. It sits waiting on a spotted ray, diverting the diver’s fluorescent refractions. One that moves with the way of the water, is unlike a name written in water, it is in itself written in water, or more aptly, it is the memory of water, a silent swimmer ascending blue carpeted stairs.