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The Present Progressive

I am waiting.
I am hovering around the edge of knowledge.
I am seeking more than you can teach me.
I am leaving the daylight hours to the machinery of monkeys
who are typing out Shakespeare one unwitting syllable at a time.
I am dreaming as if it were my last opportunity.
I am placing dark lines on a white letter.
I am letting your words mean more than mine in a time when
I am learning language anew from the vowels of ineptitude.
I am suspending volition for the period
of one episode of Dr Who in which
I am living as the child before the screen of dreams.
I am screaming out for an accumulation of yesterdays where
I am seeing today as more than an exed square on a calendar.
I am leading the life of an angel whose wings
are being frozen by the winter of inertia.
I am resolving to make this the last unrequited hope.
I am hoping to make this the last unresolved want.
You are looking for the answer to a question
you are not posing.
You are brushing your hair in order to make more of yourself than
you are willing to recognise.
You are roaming hills of deep, romantic fiction,
fast and furious as the lover’s wind is calling out
‘chance’, ‘serendipity’, ‘kismet’:
you are believing in these things.
We are walking through fields of liqueur,
sweet additive to time being spent,
to promises being uttered,
as we are saying word-words and fairy-tale intentions.
We are treading on cracked crystal,
bare-footed and bloody,
as we are making our way to the silence of seduction.
We are living as one in these curt and carnal moments.
We are desiring.
You are asking if I am loving you more
than you are loving me.
I am saying, ‘We are both… lying,

but we are content with that!’


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