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I'm revising all of these poems now...

MEMPHIS

We would drive around a lot and
smoke Cloves, listen to the bands
You wanted me to like,
To be a little more like you.
I loved the music more when you left me,
But not in the way you liked it,
I don’t think.
I don’t know – you were only twenty-two and
I was seventeen and there
Weren’t enough hours in the day
For driving around.
We could never go far enough away
From Memphis, Tennessee.

I was never the escape
You wanted to be getaway driver
For, I was never allowed
To cross state borders
Without a note.

You couldn't understand why I loved
the smell of gasoline so much,
The dry green trees, soft dirt
Those deep blue skies
Where you saw only planes.

BABY BLUE

The baby rebels cradling round
Suckling soft on rolled up silver
Dribbling eyes and fading smoke
From their new found
Mothership: A piece of foil
with charcoal smears.
Curling edges, folded corners,
Creasing surface,
Creasing conscience.

Childs play – a tiny boat on
An origami ocean
Make-believe painted silver and
Pale baby blues,
It takes you back
To the warmth that you lost,
And it's hard to know whether that
Was a dream or this is
For they seem alike
In dissolving you
And your fears all at once.

But even here you still feel sad
So have a little more,
More little sparks, inhaled emotion
Creasing reason, rolling motion
Watch the wave, chase the wave,
Try not to drown too long.

A golden cross on the wall
Was once a decoration, but now bears
Down on us, its edges defined as the hours
Pass by and the sky is only
Walls around us
Closing in.

SEBASTIAN

I needed a friend, in London,
When I first went back
And he opened the door, tall and sarcastic,
And smiled, and we talked for hours.
There were books coming out and addictions to
fight, and memories to erase, (unless there’s an
advance) and a lot to do, for us lay-abouts.
We went to the Colony Rooms and Blacks and
Met writers, drank Bloody Mary’s and irritated people.
We went to a Lolita exhibition in character, and
entertained people, for a little while.
The memories came back, then the drugs came back,
Then we irritated each other.

He said that lives on cocaine and lives on heroin
Weren’t compatible, really,
And we didn’t speak for a few months.
I went to Vienna, went blonde, and went silly
For a while, and met someone else.
Eventually we talked again and went
Back to being friends but
It had all ended really.

When I went to see him he was painting again
But he was sad, and everything in his flat
Was chaotic when it had always been neat.
Torn sheets, scattered books, dry paint, dirty sheets.
Poetic throes or rehab? Modern art, laying in.
He started smoking again. He needed twenty pounds
For art materials. He needed needles for an installation.

I was sad when I left him, as I had never been before.
Maybe I knew it was over, and it was the last time
I would ever see him. He said he’d been happy to see me
But nothing was making him happy
Art wasn’t working, these days.

In June, I was at a garden party with Nina
When Robert called. “Sebastian’s dead. I just
Had to say it – I’m sorry. I know you’ve had your
Ups and downs. Crack and heroin. This morning.”
I looked at Nina and I told her and then I looked around
At this perfect garden, blooming and easy and pale
With the light. Nina said, “I’ll get you a drink.”
We drifted through the rest of that afternoon.
I got sun-burnt and we went to a party and saw James and
Everyone and I said to him, “I can’t take it in right now,”
and I drank some wine and had an odd time,
almost ready to crash myself.
It was the day after that other scandal,
which seemed to matter little now.

There was a lot of black lace at the funeral, of course.
There were a lot of girls and artists and writers
and Soho. I sat next to my publisher in the church,
and cried, though I thought I wouldn’t.

I wasn’t sure what to do with myself afterwards.
I met a little girl, seven, called Kuki,
And ended up spending most of the wWake with her.
She had a little black Puritan dress with Doc Martins
and we chatted about this and that
and she said she wanted to be the next
Kate Bush, and I said, go for it.
The hours went on. At midnight, Laurence called a taxi.
We’d been sitting on a velvet chair for some time.
Laurence said it was the last place he’d seen him.
It was all very strange.
He didn’t know what to do either.

I took the taxi to Chelsea and as the girls were there.
So was Peter, and he gave me a hug. I was still floating above it all
Possessed by the deathly party,
The costumed denial
That the coffin was real
And he was too close to the light.
And we were not close enough.
It was dark now, and about to rain, and we got another cab.
And kept going, more cabs, talking about casual things,
Entirely adrift. I left London soon after.

BALCONY NYC

I did not know how
To say goodbye to all of them
At once. A funeral, a break-up, more deaths,
More disappearances. Two murders.
All in one year. I was twenty-two.
That summer, I lay on the lawn at home,
And counted all the people I had loved
Who were not here.
And then I tried to think of new people
As if that would make it better.
It didn’t, so I tried to work as if that
Was as important as all I’d lost
But it wasn’t.
And then I left the country and spent
Some time in New York with my runaway friends
And that was nice
Until one found another girl
And another found drugs
And then I’d lost them too.
I ended up spending my last week in New York
With two women I’d never met before.
They were very kind but I was sick of
Always ending up with people I didn’t know
And standing on another balcony with a cigarette
And a stranger’s wine glass
Wondering what it would be like to
Have friends who didn’t run away
Not realizing then that I had
Just become one.

Cambridge 2.

I had been under for the past few terms
And then I met you and we drove
To the river and your freedom
So clear, destroyed anyone else’s
Attempts to drown; your flight was mine.
Hours and days and months passed,
Fresh green waves, escape, wet skin,
New dark blue nights and marks on me.

When you came back you weren’t there anymore,
You had withdrawn, your freedom taken away in
Mind as well, it seemed to me.
Slowly back to letters, words, and wishing well
green waves lapping up and
fearlessness, a best friend, I never see.

BALCONY MARRAKECH

I had breakfast alone with the other
Guests and then I went and stood on the balcony
With some coffee and looked down and
vaguely, thought,
“I used to dream of this height.”
I left breakfast and went back to my room
And tried to figure out what to
Do with myself.