Friday 24 October 2014

postcards (from Málaga)

[Image description: the Mediterranean from Málaga]


postcards (from Málaga)

wish you were here:
          on the Paseo del Parque
          sitting on this bench
          colour bleached
          olive, satin green, bare wood
          watching the red and black ladybird
          crawl up the leg of my jeans;
          pigeons herding by
          on the white marble plain
          dappled with guano
          stained by age
          and accidents' cracks;
your hand on my thigh.

wish you were here:
          an unblemished azure sky;
          the salt-air of a calm sea
          cerulean and aquamarine
          bejewelled with gems
          of coruscating sun
          the chanting wavelets
          lap the honeyed sand gently;
          mid-distance fishermen
          trawl for their morning catch;
          while hirsute joggers limp past -
          here, they do not run -
          ectomorphic flesh
          posturing machismo
          mesomorphs are prized so dear;
          palm trees rasp against the breeze
          shivering in the unwelcome chill;
you come to mind, and
I horripilate to the thrill.

wish you were here:
          in the Alcazabar ruins
          fragments of Roman lore
          Moorish exotica restored;
          setting for nuptial reminiscences;
          literally breath-taking panoramas
          of this Legoland city
          from towers and look-out points,
          and timeless vistas
          quite unexpectedly
          tell of half-remembered historias;
          lunching on a marble tombstone
          unpeeling my oranges
          as those spectres once did
          savouring the thirst-quenching liquid
          trickling down my throat
          my fingers all sticky
          from this self-indulgent fest;
          in the future I believe Hope, lest…
but you are there, my very own.

wish you were here:
          on the mountainside
          in the fir and rowan woodland;
          the fresh scent of pine
          absorbing my nostrils
          in olfactory delight;
          the harsh glare of the sun
          defused and blurred and softened;
          calming tones
          of clover, sage and unripe lemons
          an intoxicating verdure;
          marred by the detritus
          of trysts and assignations
          of the echo of al fresco coitus
          and juvenile masturbations;
and I want you, need you now
of that I am so sure.

wish you were here:
          at the El Telón bar;
          the wondrous aroma of coffee
          its unique woodiness
          its heady spiciness;
          perhaps the only
          proof of God's existence;
          every time I pass a café
          experiencing a spiritual epiphany;
          and my prayers
          turn to
          are for

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