I Sing For Finalities – David Hay

November 13, 2022

With Deep-space tone a god drummed one last song on his dying heart, that swallows the screams as perfunctory as the silence  which cradles each thought fired into the blackness that has no time for dreams. On a station circling the void whispering notes of such sweet agonies that the ecstasy of the infant’s first breath cannot compete. In the mutability of the clock-hand sorrow, I sing for finality. A tear is such a simple thing – a piece of our history lost even to us. At the edge of doom hope flowers within each wrinkle. To think upon the lost seas of time is more sacred than a priest’s confession. 

 

 

I spoke to the typhoon that birthed the eyes of my mother, who lies in the darkness of her fate. My breath contains a cosmos but the snake that strangles the continents, speaks through the eyes of the long dead  that tend the growth of each thought that you seeded when my mind was full of god’s silence that painted infinity in colours too opaque for the thickest of adult tears. Fireworks bring  fire into the vibrating darkness that pulses with every neurotic cry, scouring the stars until the rust of futile sin, flakes down the atmospheres of mundane tragedies.  

 

 

Beans,  full of my last spring, curled upon my nervous heart, keeping time for 32 years.  Within the architecture of chaos my cat purrs. Each sound choirs with the universe’s mutations.  I’m pissed on my illusion of profundity. He stretches and in his unthinking movements I find a peace even a Buddhist would dream of. 

I grab the morning by its ear and whisper the nights terrors until I’m as pale as Polaris. Do you feel better now? It doesn’t matter if you do. Get going, this day will only happen once. 

 

I hovered above conquistadors whose prayers rose like opium into a pale sky, witness to flake of suffering. Seven lads throw a man onto the floor and kick him several times. As he tries to get up one of them throws a phone, so that it bounces off his eye socket. I shout and they disperse. If they didn’t, I have no idea what I would have done. No doubts. Let the madness out. Do anything to live. They walk away. Police have been called. A rivulet of spit and blood slope down the concrete. Spanish men with Amazon beards scratch their chins until red and gold form one soul. I walk between two times.

 

 

Green light pours in from last visible star. As it arches into my eyes, stretched open by saints lost in their prophesies, it thickens to a liquid. I open my mouth, divinities oil my blood and telescope my vision into a wordless realm of sleep and dreams. My ego rises like a helium balloon to burst between atmospheric pressures. Stop being a tit and make yourself a cheese sandwich and drink a pint of water -make sure the water paints your moustache with that primal energy that keeps you from the knife, the wrist and the supermarket lights.