Nostalgia

You can’t fool me

I know you’re here,

The hint of patchouli

you wore at our last kiss,

and at our first kiss,

gives the game away.

 

Are you playing hide ‘n’ seek?

 

Remember the neighbours

thumping the walls

at our midnight parties playing

Archie Shepp and Albert Ayler,

while we snorted coke

and smoked five-skinners?

 

Remember nights of kiss and make up

dumping lies and adulteries -

in the oubliette of

‘c’est la vie - forget about it?’

 

Cocaine, grass, jazz,

domestic warfare,

conciliation sex and

‘kissing it better.’

 

That’s the way we rolled.

 

Remember the whispered call

from Rhodes you made

regretting your ‘elopement escapade?’

 

We’ve all done dumb things when drunk on love.

 

Wiping your girlfriend’s spittle

from my cheek at

Leeds/Bradford arrivals.

 

Did you ever see her again? 

 

Remember our first trip together

in a Glastonbury bender?

 

The freeze-frame birth of a pyramid

before our saucer eyes?

 

Angels dancing around your head

trailing rainbow ribbons?

 

According to you

my face turned gargoyle -

a toxic stream gushed from a spout

where my mouth should have been.

 

You know you only made that up to score a squabble point.

 

Remember our Holy Land holiday?

 

That stampeding camel at Bethany

freaked by Italians screeching, ‘Descendere!’

 

I hung on for grim death

as it rampaged the

Garden of Gethsemane -

you wet yourself laughing    

and wished you had a camera.

 

And your white dress,

suddenly see-through,

as you rose from the Jordan after a

“discount special-rate for Sterling”

tourist baptism in ‘sacred water.’

 

The ‘preacher’ had seen it all before - his side-kick had the camera.

 

You, hippo-pregnant, naked,

washing away Dead Sea mire

in a spring at Ein Feshkha.

 

You swore flying would not harm

our unborn...

                    ... stillborn son.

 

You would have been a bonzer grandma.

 

Patchouli fades.

 

Is god where you are?

 

a dent on the wall

when I ducked

a cup you chucked

remains

 

the white stain

where you tipped

a boiling kettle over

the coffee table

remains

 

and memories of an empty funeral.

 

◄ And so with a sigh

Maybe Frannie ►

Comments

Rick

Fri 15th Mar 2019 10:44

Thanks, Jason, nostalgia evokes pain. Glad you like the pome. 😃

Profile image

Jason Bayliss

Thu 14th Mar 2019 14:46

I'm struggling for words.
I'm going to leave it at beautiful, deeply, sadly, beautiful.

J.

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