The Sea is not the Metaphor

The Sea is not the Metaphor

The black sand glitters its volcanic secrets,

Moonlight reveals evening delights,

Sunlight reveals sweating fishermen; toiling for a small fish or two,

Some wear their motorcycle helmets- hunting the ocean for a miserable snack,

In between the lost rubber sandals, smashed coconut shells,

Smoothly ground broken bottles, broken tiles, broken lives:

It sparkles, it glitters.

Hysterical crabs neurotically search the surf.

Dash from sand to sea, foam to earth.

Walk northwards and look up:

Gunung Agung appears/ disappears

With shocking clarity. Massive and beautiful.

The life-force of this island performing the dance of Kali.

Turn your back to see the lights of Sanur.

Imported sand. Imported customers.

Fat white tourists easing out of their loungers,

Their marbled flesh oozing pendulously over the fantasy of their

Bathing suits.

Ecstatic in tropical bliss.

We throw our offal into the sea,

We offer our prayers, our canang sari- fragrant with smouldering incense.

We leave these on the sand, for the sea.

Bathtub rings appear on the black shore: white chicken feathers,

Green sea grass, brown bottles, topaz shells, white toothpaste tubes.

Multi-coloured IndoMie packaging

Feeds the beach.

Whole forests and fields are bulldozed into the canals

They feed the sea,

They fill the blackened beach.

Bamboo forests

Uprooted,

Dead.

Memories of happy families wash up, tumbled in the stones:

A running shoe, a bloated dog, a fat guinea pig,

A tangled raft of used, disposable nappies,

A light bulb.

Whose lives lost these things?

Whose homes are now swept clean?

The jagged edges of the broken things lie in the glittering sand,

Watching with jaws agape for the unwary tread of a bare foot.

Exposed.

Things that were unwanted

Are returned, smashed.

They glitter.

Things that were loved,

Things that were taken,

Are returned, smashed.

They glitter.

For a day or two the sand is strewn with the wreckage of lives.

For a day or two the sand is washed clean,

Swept free.

The cleaned slate.

But memories linger,

they return

and return

and return.

They disappear from sight, hide in the bejewelled black sand

Waiting to gash, to tear.

To tear, this word that appears like a tear.

There were no magical creatures that scuttled around his fallen form,

To cover him with shining bubbles, to transport him into the welcoming

Sea.

There might have been moonlight.

This is the island of the gods.

They were more than Ralph,

Mourning the loss of innocence,

The passing of Simon and brave, fat Piggy;

The loss of a wise, true friend.

The loss of themselves.

There was black tar.

It did not glitter.

There was a helmet.

It did not sparkle.

He returns on our shores,

Again

and again

and again.

25 April 2012

Werner Paetzold

Bali (For Daniel Droniak)

Olé!

Fucking silk stocking, they never quite stay up. Oozing emotion:rage, car lay gaping. Fragments of manufactured upholstery scattered the gray grass. Dew glittered spectacularly on the wreckage.

He stood in front of her. That look, that look... he was trying to explain, why should he?

"It's my life, mine! You hear?" Recklessly forgetting the eager blade.

Her perspiration formed silver droplets that reflected and fell, reflected and fell. The lines of the chequer board blurring.

A dimple remained where her heel had ground, a form of surrender. Giving up gently the downed abdomen. She had never tasted his navel, his nipples. Her lips had never been grazed.

An elegant, artificial eyelash detached itself slightly. Skewing the lines.

Bleeding on the white, a torn lacquered nail lingered. It was over. Damask, musky rose swirled in the corners, still.

No one would find her, or the car at that hour: too early. She ripped off the other eyelash, one blinding accident was enough. His navel had distracted her thoughts. A stolen glance, carefully sealed in her memory, like an ancestral cameo. To be removed from its mouldy black velvet bag on wet days, on Sundays at dusk, fondled, never to be worn.

Despair crumpled under the elaborate skirt. At times it is necessary to allow the appearance of distress, to drop reserve, to entice help.

Trees has hidden in the morning mist, embarrassed by their part in the incident, guilty elephants, moving in the shadows, avoiding contact.

Toreador red stained the butt of the cigarette. It had brought no comfort, false light, false hope, false warmth. It was over.

"What were you doing in the kitchen for so long?"

 He did not notice the broken nail under his bare foot. Focused attention, a lover's haze. Their lips embraced. He almost lost his balance. It did not matter, this could be substantial, he wanted to be with this moment only.

A broken, artificial finger nail, painted red, was found upstairs in the bed. He had walked the memory with him.

À la Bizet

He walked into the room. Smoke surrounded the shroud of despair he attempted to ignore. He was young and beautiful. He told himself. His journey was predetermined.

No-one noticed the boy's arrival, focused on their spells of beauty: they too were invulnerable, invincible. The pal of deceit surrounded them too.

His lips, not mine. His lips, not mine. The boy kissed him again. he watched, envying their lovemaking. He was not young enough, he did not dance enough, he had inhaled the smoke.

Boys dancing, matadors, arching around each other. elegantly. the audience of their self-esteem wild, applauding. Someone throws a mantilla, another a silk scarf: "notice us too, allow us to bear you on our shoulders of collective victory: we are the army of lovers, we are the young, we are the undefeated."

The ballet slippers are carefully removed; the glorious brazen cerise and cold cape proudly flaring over the foot of the bed. No ears of conquest; no matador's honour sausages. The applause. The adulation.

He had noticed me. I had chosen to sit too long: the careful, distant observer. I wanted to watch while being noticed. the death dance is fought in the arena, a public spectacle of envied vulgarity. On the grandstand, swallowing the dust, vicariously slaughtering the black beast, he sat. The hero, hiding in his seat, clapping politely, glancing obliquely at him, the master slayer: the matador.

Their bodies instinctively swayed to the same rhythm, understanding the dance of death.

"Never look him in the eyes, he will sense your fear. You are the master. Control him with your body, lure him with your poise. you have to win the audience. You are fighting for them".

A solemn oath sworn communally from before our birth: "never let the wounded display their defeat in public. he must be killed."

A fan flutters briefly. She watches them from inside herself. Each careful brow-lock disguises her glance. She is too far removed to join emotions with the flight.

Patiently she awaits the victor. She too will slaughter. A pointed, firm ankle moves the scarlet folds aside. Her progress is definite. She understands this battle. He is for her.

Again the massive roar, another thrust forward, another encircling arc, the interpret one another's breath, their sweat aches. Golden brocade glitters fiercely, burns, bleeds.

"Before you make the last wound, you must look directly into his eyes, you must show him respect. Then you are the master. at that last moment, when you understand his soul, when it is too late to go back."

Carmine flowers begin to rain into the blood-thirsty dry floor. Approving fans tap tap and patter on the ring side balconies. Dark velvet-clouds veil the audience's blood lust. They want to see the black soaking pool. They want it to happen in front of  their greedy eyes. They want it.

Arms arcing above their heads. They avoid eyes.

He noticed me and moved away. For a better view i ordered another drink. Clinking coldly in my hand, it held my lips. A smirk curled around the edge of the fake crystal. His gaze averted itself behind the opened fan. Black with lace. An elegant diversion: saving face. A cube fell back into the glass.

"When you have looked into his eyes. Take him. The he is yours. Watch him as he kneels at your feet. He asks you to take him. That is your duty. Then you must do it. At that moment there is no-one else there with you. Only he, waiting. You will not hear the crowd. Your heart will break. you will do this again and again. They want to see you win each time. Always young; always beautiful."

they danced in consenting motion, facing each other, their eyes closed. They could see what they wanted to feel. She could see them through the lace. Her emblazoned lips slightly parted. A thickly-black eyelash shut her off. A swirl turned her away.

he had promised there would be no-one else. She had not promised anything. He had promised no other women. She saw them. She understood the promise. Her lacquered hair pulled too tightly at the rage within her gagging thoughts. Defeated.

A blood-cape for a shawl.