meanwhile, the hurricane.
we sit in discomfort,
there’s a window
with no view of
the future, or even
across the street.
there’s an afterglow,
but it’s after angry sex so
nobody found satisfaction.
meanwhile, the hurricane rages.
there’s little to talk about
and much to decide, but
confiding how haunted your
voice sounds in my head
will not assuage anything.
instead i tell him
i struggle with things
that are just out of reach.
meanwhile, the hurricane rages.
he approaches the
record player, then
changes his mind.
the rain makes a cage,
leaves us caged and prowling.
the audacity of days
makes resolution unlikely.
our cycle continues,
we fight
we fuck
we stare at the rain.
meanwhile, the hurricane rages.
i want to say the rain
is relentless, like my love,
but like the rain it too ends;
we’re splashing in the puddles
of fading familiarity
and lost chances.
he tells me he’s leaving,
i ask how high
do you think i am?
meanwhile…
orisons.
i send my orisons
to the ghosts, those of us
now free of our bones
and our muddy feet.
i pray they are
opaque enough
to hold my pleas
in their ether.
i watch them
follow convention,
to float close to the scene
of their demise.
i ask for the mundane,
i ask for the impossible,
i ask for my friends and relations,
i ask them simply to watch over me.
they tell me
"crush your eggshells,
lest the devil finds you home.”
stairway to the edge. (ripped off - stairway to heaven, led zeppelin)
it’s gentle at first
but already it’s haunted.
ghosts float in a medieval parade
and i long to join their dance
but it is too soon, they say
too soon.
following the paths of various pipers
i crave a more diabolical dancer,
one who carries a knife and
flattens his hair. but whiskey don’t
make lucky, and even the madonna
is crying when the rain washes
down the stained glass windows.
the hills get steeper, and louder,
there’s a real build.
the undergrowth makes cover
for the thief, so not everything
can be revealed,
some things must remain hidden
until the arrival of the may queen,
and the drums.
then a passer by asks me “is this
the way to heaven baby?”
cue the electric.
no matter the talisman i carry
it’s less of a caffeine high and
more of a midsommar mania.
the rocks sprout flowers
and the riverbeds flood, a cleansing.
the wonder of it all fills my eyes, as
words that cannot be spoke
must be wept.
things get a little… nonsensical
as the boats dock on
quarantine island -
they're throwing a party for our souls!
it’s all strobe lights and amulets
and dancing like the world’s on fire,
because it is.
on the edge of everything
there is a sharpness, where
things are felt more keenly.
and that’s where we gather,
watching
our island inch
to the edge
of the sharp, flat earth,
and finally
we find
our lady.
kerryn tredrea is an adelaide poet & spoken word tourist. when she’s not chucking books around at savers thrift store mining for gold she organises gigs and supports the vibrant adelaide spoken word scene. she has 2 books published with paroxysm press, adventures in captivity & this is no ordinary rapture.
Locative Magazine 