I woke up at 5am this morning, writing yesterday has stirred things up and my head is a myriad of ideas and insights. Things are floating to the surface, nothing heavy - a bit like whispers I’m just out of earshot to hear, perhaps I’ll notice them on another day, when I’m more focused.

It’s a bright day today, an azure blue sky overhead bringing sharp clarity to colours - nature seems louder today, I’m mesmerised, I feel very peaceful and happy.

I’m cheating a bit here admittedly, but I’m going to include a long poem in my blog today, one I read at Martha’s funeral, it feels right as I’m sat in a cafe drinking coffee and whilst happy and content, sometimes things just appear and I don’t really question them. I hope you like it too.

MAGIC by Gabriel Gadfly

Imagine for a second that the world you live in is magic. Not your hocus-pocus, wave-your-wand-magic, but magic like the coffee tables you sit at beat with the hearts of the trees they were made from. That the coffee and beer in your mouths is feeding you life straight off the tongues of the plants they were made from. That every heart beating in this room is beating in time to every heart in this room and this poem.

Some of you will go home with some of you tonight and some of you will go home to empty rooms, that some of you will wish you had gone home to: go home to them.

Your empty rooms and the rooms you fill always have at least one poem in them. There is a poem in the pretty girl eyes in the front row and there is a poem in the old man’s cigarette on the porch and there is a poem in the coffee girl’s hands. There is a poem in your hands, if you’ll look for it.

Imagine for a second that the world you live in is magic, because it is. Because when you go home to your empty rooms, or to the rooms you fill you each take some of each of you with you, if you want it.

If you want it, you can take some of the pretty girl’s poem and you can take some of the old man’s poem and you can take some of the coffee girl’s poem and you can take some of mine.

Tonight, when I go home, my room will be empty, and I will fill it with your poems. I will fill it with the life the beer and coffee have fed you. I will fill it with the heartbeats the tables you sit at have beat against your hands. I will fill it with the kisses that some of you will give to some of you and I will fill it with the kisses that some of you will wish you had been kissed with.

There is a poem shaking the air your ears are listening to. Listen to it. Go home and look into eyes you’ve never looked into. Hold a hand you’ve never held. Touch flesh you’ve never been touched by. Open your mouths and fill yourselves up with every                                                                                                                          poem in every person you encounter tonight.

 

I’ll do the same.

The world you live in?

It’s magic.

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