This walk is long, we'll be bound, whether mapped out or
whether predetermined destiny is not your thing,
whether detail drawn or plotted through operatic soap-sop linguistics, philosophise over a portside pint and bring
music, not to be confused with what suckers call
music, but the real thing. Ain't nothing like the family knot
tried and tied and overtired to pick out what's what when,
a strung-out four to the floor sometimes five, gives licks to
the frontal lobe, sending us grinning in strategic wonder, to
hand in hand, stand, and stare this spinning globe.
We can take it right back, to where we started from, with
hike-blisters and disco strings, hauling each other up by the
gigs or bins, with a flavour just right, plated to perfection, with only a sprinkle of pretention, for the feast within.
We can walk through Icelandic storms or pop-gloss or some funk from Slavia armed with tonic, for when the kapo fits, play it.
We can long at tractors in monochromic grain for 360 Slavic minutes and pick within it, wildly, fresh flowers and
grip righty, those moments when minutes are hours, knitted tightly and make considered decisions seem like
snap, and likely wonder what the pixel point is of it all. When the smile needs a dress and laugh is an unblocked drain
when the bairn’s face is a mess, but nevertheless, we hit the harmonic at just that moment, to make this road make sense.
With certainty, like the tissue box or the opening credits of queen’s pawn to d4, we all know what love is really for,
we are in it, and we’ll walk on evermore.