Through form

Lee-Ann Fialkov

Walking through landscape I remembered colour. I remembered
the
way we fell through form while searching for paradise. And
I
remember you like a stain; A hard to ignore image pasted
upon
me between postcards and warm beer. And you said that you
had
never been happier and I believed you, although you never
slept
and scouted the beaches for knolled wood you called art,
which
you kept hidden in faded clothes beneath your faded,
cardboard
frame that you had learnt to hold together as your own
form.
I learnt to ignore your ominous concepts of life and the
fact that
Simple things remained foreign to you. I had learnt to walk
away
from taxi drivers as you poured your poetry mould across
textured
sidewalks. You even claimed to be a prophet in search of
truth as
you hid behind your tattered label while washing down
sardines
with sarcasm. Our countries held us together like grease
while we
searched for new identities amongst the obscure. You felt
safe in
belonging to a private regime of the employed while I
merely
longed to loose you in the colour of regret while stumbling
heavily
onward in search of form. We never did find paradise,
although I
still have a couple of postcards left and the memory of
warm beer
in my belly.

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