Black Stars- Aoife Reilly

Imagine a room thick with anticipation
It started there. From a white room in a squat
with jittery laughter into tourist streets,
Amsterdam 1997-
think corrupted tulips and Macedonian gypsy dance.
Balloons in my hands and cotton candy streets from now
have flashed me back to this squat
on the outskirts of a lonely city-
they were called Black Stars, brought to us
by the people who close their eyes to see.
We became liquid, river, ocean
combined the Alices and Dorothys of night
lysergic acid, our faithful golden compass
its thin veil into the radical
where I understood the fortress of mind for the first time.

What I can recall now is a picture of me and you
walking from the cool watery night
into the minute before morning
stalking our way through fields
of potatoes far from the party,
you told me that the planes had landed.
I reminded you this was not real,
but I couldn’t be sure.
As we waded through real-not real
a stillness was getting ready to drop
the foggy air contagious with late September
and legend seeping in
through a souvenir of time,
where you know you can’t go back
the way you came

You never do.


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