In San Francisco death or shadows of death, white letters pressed in paint and thrown to the waves

In San Francisco death and death's melody

In San Francisco I will hold two matchsticks, one blue, one red

In San Francisco I will pour glass nails into the snow that drips from the piste of your melting face

In San Francisco I will imbibe an unhealthy lullaby wearing a mask of gasoline. I will lie to you, sweetly, splendidly: o the emerald cities, o the vaults of elves, o the viridian springs, o the golden years


In San Francisco I will blow a bubble into your bubble bath, aquamarine and silk, the verve of Venetian velvet, the softness and cruelty of your aspic skin stroking my aspic skin.

In San Francisco I will hold my eyes in your eyes, the butterflies striped black in lightning flutter past the neon flicker of ghosts filming movies in the night. Good ones.

When I am in San Francisco I will multiply golden bridges by falling from golden bridges as the golden bridges multiply, casting charms.

In San Francisco I will wait for you. I will wait as you stand beside me.

In silence.

In the most profound silence I know.

*

In San Francisco the bluebells will bloom through the lavender green, blue, green, sweet empty parks surrounded by sweet empty restaurants. Blood flowing over the newly sprayed grass, wedding white.

In San Francisco the bells will chime:

 I do not ask for your presence - your presence I do not ask for

In San Francisco nothing comes for free, there is a heavy price for air, for peonies, for cracked black pepper, crime novels and Tabitha

In San Francisco richer than a river we will roll orange and amber in million dollar sunsets, dripping with light and American scum, as young as the moons that made us, petrol eyed and dust loved, dirty, the sun will shiver our hearts to mercury. Infinite reflexes, divine pears, infidels, in San Francisco when the ocean sleeps we will be making love.

In San Francisco I will smoke two cigarettes.

In San Francisco Phoenician girls will play in the sand as I read Son de Negroes en Cuba,
FGL, the poets name the masculine form of your own.

In San Francisco we will laugh when the saints arrive in the square to dance in circles: o santé fe, o san josé, sway, sway, sway

O sweet western wizards, stay.

In San Francisco stay.

*

In San Francisco I will cry peas and pyjamas in little tabby cat feet.

In San Francisco I will give birth to opal doves and shelter buttercup babies from a snowstorm of lemon clouds, octopi and virgin ice. Hurricanes of spoons jangling like Irish ships on the ally-ally-o, bronzed and jaded saxophonists blowing out the salt windows.

In San Francisco do not fear, I am joy. I am joy boy, with wild flowers and urchins in my hat.

In San Francisco, at Christmas, there will be pastors pouring chips on the Eucharist. Our love will suck the silver of Madonna in cherry white and cherry red. In the rigging we will paint our bodies nude on the rocks and in the theatres we will drink moonlight from the Lord's bath.

In San Francisco there will be a chapel made of apple. Federica, am I inside you?

I do not ask for forgiveness - your forgiveness I do not ask for

In San Francisco my smile will stretch from Vaduz to Timbuktu, with every trophy I've won since 1987. V's lining the gold chinks of my crooked teeth. Elephants that turn to milk in oxygen.

I do not need to hold you - I have always held you

You do not need to hold me- you have always held me

In San Francisco, under a rainbow, where we will stand in echoes

*

In San Francisco there is a girl trembling with God. It is you, Federica, and why won't you stop?

In San Francisco I am not a boy. I am an empire. And my sex is a line in the sand. I die every time I tie my strawberry laces. St. Lolita, St Cuthbert, St Catherine, St Susanne.

In San Francisco I want the universe of me to marry the universe of you; Herbert summers, amore bathing psyche. More life, more lust, more death.

In San Francisco after the wind storm, the sand storm, the sun storm, the rain storm

In San Francisco the waterfall of your O's will wash ceremonies from the arc's shoulder, honey fondling the folds of my hair, husbands holding marigolds, wives holding watermelons.

In San Francisco the water will always be purple.

In San Francisco the rain will put a face on easy and every last one of us us will weep nettles from the balustrades, in the discos, waving our bronze medals, waiting for the confetti to fall.

In San Francisco verve your ears, flower your eyes. Winter has run her fingers over me, spring must follow.

In San Francisco I will arrive only to claim my victory. My pleasure domes, my gilded beams.

In San Francisco I will call for Love - love - I will ring out the glory of the belle epoch.

In San Francisco we will live as long as our memories, as gentle as a snowflake landing on snowflake, rare white powder washed away with rare white powder

In San Francisco the last world is gold.  


    Charlie Baylis 2015