Pane

Renos Nicos Spanoudes

again last night
we tried to steam
the painful creases of our four walled relationship
much like the pressing of your ties your shirts
my shirts my ties

another breaking day
nothing on our world’s windows
but frost again
this morning do I see

then the cupboards
do i open bare
and notice the first ever gift
remember that sun-drenched day
at the market
it was after the parade yes
the ribboned bottles of olive oil
imported
important

look now how i bear their colours ironic
for those with seed
those unsplit
those that are untouched
that are
but from the tree
directly plucked
will fall not directly
onto the earth
onto the ground straight
will not tear

        so extra extra virgin will they be
        and fair as i
        fared will be their yielded essence

i not on the grass
not on your muddy soil
but on your mat
did with my semen seeds once fall

too many times

agree wouldn’t you
that that bottled dark one
reflects me today
or yesterday
and maybe lately
is me now
for i feel murky insides milked and thick
well pounded and crushed
on stony grounds pebbled
our blood oil drained

and muscled well
too much you say
sloganing me again you are
with attitude is everything
be proud be out be happy
relationship be

and dashing man to boy submissive you’ll say
what you’ve reaped once
you once upon a time
consciously sowed

fine
i’m very fine
unclubbing i’ll handle it dry i’ll handle it
deal me pile me remote control me
watch me good is the morning
drink to this miracle of another paradisical day
drink too to the dew of the morning

coffee fix
        negative
no left over honey
perhaps tea
        positive
so five roses it is
        for one
with a smile sweetener
        please and thank you lemon black

        one         press button
        two        switched on
        three       now wait

biding time as water heats
i press the weighted tips
of my fingers blue
angling them on the pane
and i carve a canyon masterpiece
my frozen ice-crystal landscape
but it seems so
heartless so
i blow out my inside breaths
onto the glass
and laugh at the window’s petty putty dependence

yet
my warmth registers nil
nil changes

but hang on
see a little part
a tiny section just here
one solitary melted clearing in the grey
to look through
the drenching
the running water and the mist
to see the distant morning birds

i hear their mourning songs
it’s music to our windy garden blue

and in my distance
the toiling water
in your kettle
is brought safely
to the boil

boils

and boiling
it brings an automatic stop

july 2003

boontoe / to the top

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