I know that you grow in my soil I know that you spread your leaves I know that you inhibit other growth This is how a weed can turn into a bird This is how love produces her work This is how words find strength in the earth
I know that you grow in my soil And that the garden begins to die in your shadow That as you fly away you leave him weakened Competing for food with his white throat Exposed suddenly to the great sunlight of love
Underneath Underneath that other you Underneath Underneath another you
Triangle you Percussion you Inca you Maya you
That he dissa- Pears into you Inca you Maya you
On you The “L” shape Of the other you Where you disappear
L shaped you L shaped you
Close up things
Sometimes I feel I’m on a rope ladder that I have climbed up too high or climbed down too low That I’m carrying a bird in a pocket of my mind and that I nearly drop it into a piece of a dream Stretched like skin between the rocks of a cave That all my childhood days were empty like abandoned coal trucks linked together That I wake up in one each day without an existence My eyes would play with the close up things that my eye could reach Close up things were like a family This was my family before I learned to cry
I cried it all out Alone or in anger alone Yet some of it was stuck down deep Like coal in a deep mine So I drank it out I drank until only my bones were left of me I drank until I was quite sure That no one was there
Childless in the museum of childhood. The museum attacks us like a sparrow hawk. So close to love – but the zebra gets up and walks down the street. The explanation for your choice was lost like a web in a burning barn. I came close to you but the hinges became like earthworms in tubas. Once again the wings of dragonflies fill my pockets, you hug your dolly to your bosom like a grenadier guard walking in space. My pretending friend of childhood is here, she is living in the doll’s house in the darkened corner. There are so many shadows living here in the Museum of Childhood, they cannot all belong to Peter Pan,
Childless in the museum of Childhood. Love do you go in without your pocket money? How do you feel not knowing how to place the blame? Do you feel warm wrapped up in the heat of your tireless anger? What do these childless eyes say to you? Are there pterodactyls in the skies of your dreams? My friendship is a ship of the line going into battle; my body is to be divided as the spoils of war. My face is the face of the moon over a blazing dolls house. My body has been given to the silversmith for a salver, you place your empty cups on one, and oh, you’ve placed your empty cups on me in the Museum of Childhood.
Take away my head-covering see how tall my antlers are. Why should you go childless in the Museum of Childhood? Why should you hunt me down with the weapon of your mouth? The summer has compressed us into the Museum of Childhood like two sardines between its heatwaves. My heart is darker than an African woodcarving, sweeter than a black morass of wild blackberries. Is your heart white like clouds of milk, are your arteries blue like oceans, is your soul divided amongst the exhibits, it is painted upon the faces of dolls and is written on the sides of the toy buses, it is printed like alphabets in bright colours. In a glass case within a glass case my flesh is scared by broken glass.
It is so calm in this great hall. Let us sit here like two best friends. Let us remember the games we played and find new ways to play them. Let us make a den for ourselves in the girders and stay there all night. Like two good children let us go there to do our homework. Let us fall out over the last cream cake, then kiss, and make up. I know I am old now but I know this one thing here in the Museum of Childhood, it is wrong to be so sad.
Your secret lover, the one who drinks the moon, has stretched an acre of magnetic fields between us. Do you love your secret lover like a god and listen to his instruction? He has led you through blood and bruises and broken your heart in two. Yet still you call him god and believe he is true. And now he possesses you again and turns you against mortal love. What plans has he for you? What tortures will he impose upon you? How will his possession of you be expressed? And your beautiful hair, how can it ever be free? Yes, your beautiful hair, how will it ever be free?
Look at him – is your secret lover the masked figure of a Greek tragedy? Is he a devil wearing the facemask of a handsome god. Are you now like the maenad who danced in the woods? Will you be asked to tear wild animals to pieces? And would you kill the jealous human males who spy on your wild dances from the thickets?
But I heard your speech, I heard the speech of the strange spirit on your lips. I feel sharply his distrust for me. May the true God see his illegal activity and may he shudder.
Girl, carried on a gooses wings into the sun at last. Pour out your love upon my soul and let your beautiful hair be free to shine.