Our Respective Hilltops

And I know I am in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
none of my heroes.
I never stocked up on henna
on the outbreak of World War II
I never wept for Salvador Dali,
never stood before a fascist squad
their guns pointing at my chest,
I never lived on the island of Hydra
never met Marianne
never wore the bolo tie
never wrote, never read
never sang.

And I know you are in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
none of your heroes.
I don’t even know about your heroes
I don’t even have an Edith Piaf voice.

And you don’t even have a bark yet
And my allusions are rotten to you yet

And I know you are in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
deaf.
I didn’t even hear you sing
I couldn’t even appreciate—
let me write songs for you
let me write plays
let me write you an entire musical, an opera
act in it, sing it, do it live it hurt it rip it kill it dismember it if you like
and let us remain
on our respective hilltops now
i haven’t been told about bridges.


And I know I cannot live endangered
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my pulse
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves
and my solitude torments me
and my solitude speaks to me
‘I watched over you for so long
You cannot forsake me now’
and she isn’t even right
and she isn’t even truthful
but I have to agree with her
until the next impossible chase—
because she is right because she is truthful
because I can drink and dance and dance and dance
but I will walk back home with her
I will hold her hand
I will lie beside her
but

I am
happy this way. Until—
I don’t protest.
And with the uncontested authority
of a future poet writer playwright actor
of a singer,
I forgive you all your sins
I give you crane wings, I bless you
and all you wish to be blessed
I give you ten years from my life
I will give you my firstborn if you ask for her
I had a dress woven from winter clouds for you
so we shall remain
on our respective hilltops
don’t make me climb
don’t let me fall
I don’t know about bridges

And I know I am in mortal danger
when the Book of Longing smells of you
and I know you are in mortal danger
because I did let go of the hollies
and only the Book of Longing is here.

I know you would never enslave me
so do not let me
enslave myself.





Some Notes:

the Book of Longing is a collection of Leonard Cohen’s poetry; and my favourite book.

Holly has tiny, red, berry-like flowers and extremely sharp leaves.

It was Quentin Crisp who stocked up on henna on the outbreak of WWII. To make sure he could dye her hair red through shortages.

It was Federico Garcia Lorca who –probably- wept for Salvador Dali and was killed by fascists.

It was Leonard Cohen who lived in Hydra with Marianne. He wears bolo ties.