Of course old men in pubs throw snow at girls who dare the streets. It is obvious and yet I am still oblivious to this very British life, lifted up above a past as short as my own, my nation, my city of god. They could be angels, these frozen fairies broken at my feet, or strings of cotton awaiting warranted spring. It is here I would expect them to write, a rare if real creativity cordoned off by ice queens and quick outpourings of skies, not love that lasts. But yet I think of poets that belong to my city and my own song. I think of stories not of pebbled pretense, not of Portuguese winds or those winding roads in which I saw desire, but of the very south of home, of the wildest buildings grown pale by the sea.
Perhaps writers are simply snared by words, themselves; they love rhetoric more than the real, soft, feathery beings that can keep them warm. They are cold perhaps, snowed in by wounded, wound up minds that never stop, the trails of tick-tocking, internal clocks that shudder even in the full mooned nights. Perhaps these snows, or these failures to warm the ice are real stakes that bend in hearts; they are the stakes they hold, such flippant hands in life, all aces or nothing, at its very, beaten best. All wings tucked into the crevices of breasts.
Vampires then, I find in writers, as I find in dreams. They have sucked in the life from others' lives, from lived experiences claimed in desperate prose. All stories told are real, not white lies but black realities. real as that fleeting cotton that will melt in moments at my toes, real as that ornate aching of every, any broken heart inside the darkness of these english pubs.
Words, as snow that does not belong on this forgotten island, as deep and damaged as the pebbles that grew our greatest poets--drowned inside of themeslves by active, enemy skies. Set to lurk, set to flight, their phantom fangs never abandoned, for no saunter, no skin can live up to a love of words.
