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IX
The whoosh of energy. I make big notes about the Sirius sequence, 9pm 10pm as it gets closer to eleven I am overcome with the sense of choice and options. I find myself walking down the street. There has to be a bar open. I take the twenty out and wander to the seafront where the Bar Bleu lights are shining on a silhouette in the window and the star Uranus is shining in the night sky. I’ve seen loads of dogs today, I think amazingly there I look and see cavorting in waves the two White Wolves of my dreams of transcendence. The still dark water lapping offshore. I am surprised. Onlty three days ago the high tide was at midnight. I know I am tired, I argue back with the presence of the remorseless and resourceless activity of the inner sensor, understanding as I stand there, leaning against the white glossed rail, my hands feeling the corrosion of salt; hardly a breath of wind. In the dark where sea meets sand, rock husks and geomnetris of fishmermen offshore stood in the waves for the last of the seasons Mackerel. Turtles have been caught off the coast of Ireland and Cornwall. I am longing to see a dolphin. Al’s told me that the dolphin over in Foljstone is still cavorting with the locals. And the Dingle Peninsula Dolphin seems to be happy there. It’s been there for years. Off shore, the twinkling lights of the Marina at Eastbourne speak of opulence, marina rigged boats, luxury cabins and and a life at sea. I turn away from the sea, depositing my codes into the air, bequeathing Neptune and Poseidon in the still evident wave cascade of the High Energy of the Royal Summer. They do not recognize me, I, the King Royal, asking to be seated now at the bar as the Landowner who lives an hour away turns me away, politely, which obviously counts for something. Samantha, the nineteen year old College Student from Hampshire makes sure that I do see her large smile. I would stop, I tell her telepathically. But I am in the middle of a wave. The high Sirian energy of form makes me listen to Derek’s banter and explanations pour from his mouth like wet rain on silk, I can see the strands of his own alcohoism affecting his memory. Damn good Drummer at the deck closes up his rock solid set of records and I feel the hairs on my neck rise up as tho my back is turned to her she is studying my form. We unite in an ethereal realm. The hands we held together, the light in our eyes as we telepathically plan our future get together. I turn and walk out, knowing the bar up the road, back up the hill, opposite the police station there are shallow shudders from the trees and earth, rising as it does with new moon energy protects them from seeing us. It is as hard for the police to see us as it is for us to see them. The crowded bar yields up an immediate fruit. The fruit in the form of Kalib and Stacy, Paul and Matt, the crying eyes into pints long gone at this hour as we race to the final exactitude of drinking after hours. She makes her way up behind me gyrating and pressing her slim hips into my ass. Her hands reach around the bar for her drink and I hug the tight back, and the fleshy ness of my own palms presses into her waist. The poet lingers ewith words. I have
