The Outskirts of Marrakech

by Lucas Pickford

An Absinthe at dusk, Paris lights in the distance, beneath this sod, do the old poets lay, their bones laid bare
Rimbaud, Coleridge, and De Quincey’s confessions, hats on beds, ominous signs
Cocteau’s Potion consumed in gentle explosions

Far away, the black night fell on the outskirts of Marrakech

They are all only voices echoing in my memory now

Down all the passages I did not take
Towards all the doors I never opened
Tomorrow never came , for all we know
Only Morpheus’ soft sweet dreams
At the still point of this turning world
Cocteau met Picasso and fell under his spell, he never forgot those days in Rome, where they worked together on Parade in the Cave Taglioni

What might have been became just an abstraction
Remained a perpetual possibility in a world of speculation.
The answer remained hidden
Words move, music moves

But only that which is living can die
Words, after speech, reach into the silence
But only by the form, the pattern left behind can our words or music reach the stillness, the silence
Required to the Western Lands

Then once there, after a long night, under the moon, where you realized it was just your mind that caused the world, you saw lights fading away from you, like stars at dawn….

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~ This piece was posted on Thursday, June 29th, 2006 and was filed under Writing, Poetry. You can make comments on it below. ~