You are dead.
And if the summer thinks it can steal you —
well, that's cool.

I'm alive.
They're trying to fabricate my life for me:
all summer, for a handful of Elgars —
two times a day, Liebherr, Mabey:
Mabey, Liebherr.

You're dead, and I'm not going to mourn over you —
not with a single, precious word.
You gave your words away as if they were nothing,
I won't countenance such surrender.
You had your chance to speak —
you could have broken this world asunder,
you said nothing.

You just let the silence pour into you,
it wasn't even your silence:
you could have made yourself really something,
you could have cried out your life,
they couldn't stop you:
they stopped you.
Why did you let that happen?

I'm alive.
And I was counting on you
to be my friend.
They want a table on rats or Drosophila:
that's fine — I'm on it.

Fox Ultra Captain King Eros Romeo Starfish —
why did you let them take your soul away?
It's gruesome, Hammer.
All that long, soul-snatching summer,
when your body was living,
and they were zombies in the shopping mall,
out-takes of George A. Romero.

Their theft is seminal, too:
they stole your meaning,
but you left the door open:
you helped them to steal yourself —
you could have called out,
where was the cry for help
when such a cry would be noble?
You're dead, I can't help you, now.

Christ, how wonderful you were.
Orpheus, Persephone —
all that 2-trains summer, and Underground signs:
your kiss was greater than Ovid and Homer,
the Taj melted on it like sugar,
Liebherr, Mabey:
Mabey, Liebherr.

You are dead — you're so fucking dead
you shame death.
And you were wonderful, I wanted to kiss you
because I wanted to live,
live deeply, wound life with your loveliness,
scar it, scare it, make it run —
now you're just a mirror over my shoulder,
dumb,
and I won't look back for you.

Do you believe in the Spirits of the Mirror?
What a strange life they have, subtle and eerie,
floating in their glass dimension — mutely.
Do you believe in the poem of the mirror?
What an obvious death you'll have.
I'm not looking back at you.

Cocteau, cocktail:
one should be brutal with mirrors,
slay every moving thing in them.
Mirrors? Telephones to dial up the dead —
go on: you know that it's good to talk.

So, let's talk.
There's no need for a trench of sacrificial blood
or anything mythical:
I'm living, you're dead —
call me up, I'm here.

I'm here.
Speak — say one, precious word.
A word that belongs to you,
a word for which you'd give your life:
please, don't remain silent,
don't let them fill you with silence:
raise yourself up, say a word.

Spirit, I command you.
I'm here — speak, little one.
Tell me about the weather of your eyes.
Tell me what the sun is like up there,
in the land of the living.

Why were you never shocked by words?
Why didn't they call you?
Why couldn't you feel how rough they were,
how irreducibly strange, how magical?
You thought words were easy, smooth, charming —
didn't you realise they were killers?
Killers, and Christ, and hammers:
all that 2-trains summer,
when I kissed you,
and you died?

In a moment, your lips will be sealed.
And there will be a life between us.
I'm just a man: I'm no resurrectionist.
You let them fill you with silence.
Will you let me fill you with words?

Will you honour them,
and their brilliant, hermaphrodite labour?
They're so strong for you.
They'll bear you.
Come on: raise yourself up
to the power of words.

I am a sign.
I am dead.
Someone stole my life away,
and imprisoned me in a mirror.
I cry out, but my cry is a mirror cry,
no one in the world of the living hears me.
I float like an angelfish in a tank:
can't you see me?
I'm real. I'm in here. Let me out!
You! You out there! I'm calling!

Did you hear a sound?
I thought I heard voices.
Can't you hear me?
I thought you were my friend.
I'm here. It's real. It's really happening.
What is? Did you hear a voice?
Did you see a sign?

You're dead. The summer has stolen you.
You're abolished, like presence, like the soul.
When you kissed, the Taj Mahal was a waste of time,
and tomorrow was an afterthought.
But now you're dead.
They drove a spike of glass through you —
right through your heart.
A spike of glass: a spike of silence.
They stole your shadow.
Now, you're vanished. You'll never return.
And I won't use up a single, precious word on you.

I'm alive.

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 2003.

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