oliver craner

Saturday, July 09, 2005


by then I could rub against your skin still - bare shoulders,
neck, stomach, thighs - or take hair between teeth, lie still,
take some message from gesture, touch, repose, whichever came first or

seemed, still, like an attempt at contact, a response. That
was (once) the least of our demands: the low threshold, "mere"
sense [...]

but something hit us, with sudden violence: a violation, either vitalism
or nihilism, or revenge. (Not just any thing, darling; that
would be too kind, too sly)... - You hated me then. I unloaded history;
you chafed, raged, virtually spat tears in my face, and then let this
hard sunshine (hollow, like shaft-light) go and slowly swallow days.
There was no going back from there.

We were exhausted, beaten, trapped.


- 1. a controversy of dead silence, at midnight or midday,
could undo words delivered in an attempt at a pact or peace or one
frigid kiss which, somehow, just could not dissolve accusations or
resentment however ferociously fought for; 2. we could no longer
coordinate thought and feeling to or with each other, and yet it had
been assumed, had been fused, this assurance, on hot spring evenings
laced with showers, mood shifts; 3..…no sleep, taut nerves,
delicious doses of energy, like living on limbs filled with lactic acid.


That spring, we lived on bowls of risotto, jugs of table wine,
and wilting olives (with stones smashed). Cats padded
over dust and stone, bloody little teeth bare, whiskers dripping.
You reclined on limestone slabs, peeled back your bathing suit
to reveal tan lines, upturned your bag in search of a bracelet,
and everything fell out; books, lotions, headscarf, varnish,
and the sun, dipping, drenched you. We could not leave the sea before
dusk or eat before midnight. In our tiny, bare room, air tinged with ash
from a forest fire, above encroaching street clamor. It belonged to us,
but not one of us. Not only one of us


[...] with constant momentum and direction, swam straight through
currents and riptides: continued. Events need not achieve magnitude
or shape or quality, or be quantified what so ever, so much so,
I could forget your face

it undid me every time: various inflections, a little hard defiance
and humor; or opening up, for example, onto me, sharp eye
fast and expressive; you beaming, relaxed, delighted… - Undone again,
could have said yes then, to any question. Just then
was ardor, seduction, fury: this kept recurring with slight

Each moment demands clarity. Covers off by morning, slight light slats
over skin, a lock of limbs. There was rest. Only then

I gave what I could. That was the deal. I wish I could still make out
or recall small points of contact, discreet or hungry,
reservation or reproach,

only desire

could disguise force spent hopelessly, erase cruelty: another
unnecessary exchange, words hurled with no caution or thought or
intention, except base strategy: offence and defence, simultaneously,
to no end…


And speech went into deadlocks and decelerations.

And the temperate climate of the time and its details:
orchids and grisly slabs and dead pigeons, slate sky above Barbican,
birdsong in traffic, pink fuchsia by fire station doors, hairstyles on
a bus: braids, updos, locs, etc.

and I was lucky also in that I could see her nails, swerving curves
and crimson glaze. And hot air streams singed rat nests and hard gum.

posted by oc  # 12:11 PM

citta vecchio

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