Blue (1993) - full transcript
Against a plain, unchanging blue screen, a densely interwoven soundtrack of voices, sound effects and music attempt to convey a portrait of Derek Jarman's experiences with AIDS, both literally and allegorically, together with an exploration of the meanings associated with the colour blue.
You say to the boy open your eyes
When he opens his eyes and sees the light
You make him cry out.
Saying O Blue come forth
O Blue arise
O Blue ascend
O Blue come in
I am sitting with some friends in this café
drinking coffee
served by young refugees from Bosnia.
The war rages across the newspapers
and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
Tania said:
"Your clothes are on back to front and inside out."
Since there were only two of us here I took them off and put them right
then and there.
I am always here before the doors open.
What need of so much news from abroad
while all that concerns either life or death
is all transacting and at work within me.
I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down.
Flying in from the dark
he nearly parted my hair.
I step into a blue funk.
The doctor in St Bartholomew's Hospital thought
he could detect lesions in my retina
the pupils dilated with belladonna
the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
Look left Look down
Look up Look right
Blue flashes in my eyes.
Blue Bottle buzzing
Lazy days
The sky blue butterfly Sways on a cornflower
Lost in the warmth Of the blue heat haze
Singing the blues
Quiet and slowly Blue of my heart
Blue of my dreams
Slow blue love
Of delphinium days
Blue is the universal love
in which man bathes it is the terrestrial paradise.
I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale
Another year is passing
In the roaring waters
I hear the voices of dead friends
Love is life that lasts forever.
My heart's memory turns to you
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
But what if this present Were the world's last night
In the setting sun your love fades
Dies in the moonlight
Fails to rise
Thrice denied by cock crow
In the dawn's first light
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
The camera flash Atomic bright Photos
The CMV a green moon then the world turns magenta
My retina
Is a distant planet
A red Mars
From a Boy's Own comic
With yellow infection Bubbling at the corner
I said this looks like a planet
The doctor says:
" Oh, I think It looks like a pizza"
The worst of the illness is the uncertainty.
I've played this scenario back and forth each
hour of the day for the last six years.
Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
I am home with the blinds drawn
H.B. is back from Newcastle But gone out
The washing Machine is roaring away And the fridge is defrosting
These are his favourite sounds
I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital
or coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip.
My vision will never come back.
The retina is destroyed,
though when the bleeding stops
what is left of my sight might improve.
I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
If I lose half my sight will my vision be halved?
The virus rages fierce.
I have no friends now who are not dead or dying.
Like a blue frost it caught them.
At work, at the cinema,
on marches and beaches.
In churches on their knees, running,
flying, silent or shouting protest.
It started with sweats in the night
and swollen glands.
Then the black cancers
spread across their faces
as they fought for breath
TB and pneumonia hammered at the lungs
and Toxo at the brain.
Reflexes scrambled
sweat poured through hair
matted like lianas in the tropical forest.
Voices slurred
and then were lost forever.
My pen chased this story across the page
tossed this way and that in the storm.
The blood of sensibility is blue
I consecrate myself To fìnd its most perfect expression
My sight failed a little more in the night
H.B. offers me his blood
It will kill everything he says
The drip of DHPG
Trills like a canary
I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears.
I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
I hold out my hands before me
and slowly part them.
At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes.
This is how I used to see.
Now if I repeat the motion, this is all I see.
I shall not win the battle against the virus
in spite of the slogans like `Living with AIDS'.
The virus was appropriated by the well
so we have to live with AIDS
while they spread the quilt
for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost.
A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
Thinking blind, becoming blind.
In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb.
The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm.
We give up after five attempts.
Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm?
I've got used to it but I still shut my eyes.
The Gautama Buddha instructs me
to walk away from illness.
But he wasn't attached to a drip.
Fate is the strongest
Fate
Fated
Fatal
I resign myself to Fate
Blind Fate
The drip stings
A lump swells up in my arm
Out comes the drip
An electric shock sparks up my arm
How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
How am I going to walk away from this?
I fìll this room with the echo of many voices
Who passed time here
Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
The sun comes and floods this empty room
I call it my room
My room
has welcomed many summers
Embraced laughter and tears
Can it fìll itself with your laughter
Each word a sunbeam Glancing in the light
This is the song of My Room
Blue stretches
yawns
and is awake.
(sussurrando) Paul.
(sussurrando) Howard.
There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia.
They look out of time.
Peasant women with scarves and black dresses
stepped from the pages of an older Europe.
One of them has lost her three children.
Lightning flickers through the hospital window
at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear.
I ask her if I can give her a lift
I've hailed a taxi.
"Can you take me to Holborn tube?"
On the way she breaks down in tears.
She has come from Edinburgh.
Her son is in the ward
he has meningitis and
has lost the use of his legs
I'm helpless as the tears flow.
I can't see her.
Just the sound of her sobbing.
One can know the whole world
Without stirring abroad
Without looking out of the window
One can see the way of heaven
The further one goes The less one knows
In the pandemonium of image
I present you with the universal Blue
Blue an open door to soul
An infinite possibility
Becoming tangible
Here I am again in the waiting room.
Hell on Earth is a waiting room.
Here you know you are not in control of yourself,
waiting for your name to be called:
Here you have no name
confìdentiality is nameless.
Where is 666?
Am I sitting opposite him/her?
Maybe 666 is the demented woman
switching the channels on the TV.
What do I see
Past the gates of conscience?
Activists invading Sunday Mass
In the cathedral An epic Czar Ivan
denouncing the Patriarch of Moscow
A moon-faced boy who spits
and repeatedly crosses himself as he genuflects
Will the pearly gates slam shut
in the faces of the devout?
The demented woman is discussing needles
there is always a discussion of needles here.
She has a line put into her neck.
How are we perceived
if we are to be perceived at all?
For the most part we are invisible.
If the doors of Perception were cleansed
then everything would be seen as it is.
The dog barks, the caravan passes.
Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
Marco Polo stops and sits
on a lapis throne by the River Oxus
while he is ministered to by the descendants
of Alexander the Great.
The caravan approaches,
blue canvasses fluttering in the wind.
Blue people from over the sea ultramarine
have come to collect
the lapis with its flecks of gold.
The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth
built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight
cause terrible blindness.
The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals,
magnify them and drive you into madness.
Blue walks into the labyrinth.
Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors,
so their presence does not disturb the poets
who are directing the excavations.
Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days
as rain and wind destroy the finds.
The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected
and the systematic cataloguing of words
has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way.
Blue watched as a word or phrase
materialised in scintillating sparks,
a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness
with the brightness of its reflections.
As a teenager I used to work
for the Royal National Institute for the Blind
on their Christmas appeal for radios
with dear miss Punch, seventy years old
who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
She kept us on our toes.
Her job as a gardener
gave her time to spare in January.
Miss Punch Leather Woman
was the first out dyke I ever met.
Closeted and frightened by my sexuality
she was my hope.
"Climb on, let's go for a ride."
She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow,
and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle.
She bossed all the other old girls
who came back year after year
for her company.
In the paper today.
Three quarters of the AIDS organisations
are not providing safer sex information.
One district said they had no queers in their community
but you might try district X
they have a theatre.
My sight seems to have closed in.
The hospital is even quieter this morning.
Hushed.
I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I feel defeated.
My mind bright as a button
but my body falling apart
a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room.
There is death in the air here, but we are not talking about it.
But I know the silence might be broken
by distraught visitors screaming:
"Help, Sister! Help Nurse!"
followed by the sound of feet
rushing along the corridor.
Then silence.
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita
where all at the end of the line call.
Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause.
The saint of all who are at their wit's end
who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world.
These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy
in a system of unreality.
Would all these blurred facts that deceive
dissolve in his last breath?
For accustomed to believing in image,
an absolute idea of value
his world had forgotten the command of essence:
Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself
Any Graven Image
although you know the task
is to fill the empty page.
From the bottom of your heart,
pray to be released from image.
The image is a prison of the soul,
your heredity, your education,
your vices and aspirations,
your qualities, your psychological world.
I have walked behind the sky.
(MUSICA IN SOTTOFONDO)
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless blue of Bliss.
To be an astronaut of the void,
leave the comfortable house
that imprisons you with reassurance.
Remember,
To be going and to have are not eternal
fight the fear that engenders the beginning,
the middle
and the end.
For Blue
there are no boundaries or solutions.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
How did my friends cross the cobalt river,
with what did they pay the ferryman?
As they set out for the indigo shore
under this jet-black sky
some died on their feet
with a backward glance.
Did they see Death
with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot,
bruised blue-black
growing dark in the absence of light,
did they hear the blast of trumpets?
David ran home panicked
on the train from Waterloo,
brought back exhausted and unconscious
to die that night.
Terry who mumbled incoherently
into his incontinent tears.
Others faded like flowers
cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper,
parched as the waters of life receded.
Howard turned slowly to stone,
petrified day by day,
his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress
until all we could hear
were his groans on the telephone
circling the globe.
Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair
clasping his knees to his chest
Bananas.
The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot,
bone dry, skeletal,
the black seeds picked
into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin.
He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner.
Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn,
caw of the jet-black crows
spiralling in the yellow.
The lemon goblin stares
from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner.
Sourpuss suicide screams with evil
clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly
whose fetid breath scorches
the trees yellow with ague.
Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry.
He'll stab you in the back.
Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air,
the stink of pus blinds Blue's eyes.
Evil swims in the yellow bile.
Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison.
He crawls over Eve's rotting apple
wasp-like.
Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth
his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas.
They'll piss all over you.
Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared.
Blue transformed into an insectocutor,
his Blue aura frying the foes.
We all contemplated suicide
We hoped for euthanasia
We were lulled into believing
Morphine dispelled pain
Rather than making it tangible
Like a mad Disney cartoon
Transforming itself into Every conceivable nightmare
Karl killed himself
how did he do it?
I never asked.
It seemed incidental.
What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid
or shot himself in the eye.
Maybe he dived into the streets
from high up in the cloud-lapped skyscrapers.
The nurse explains the implant.
You mix the drugs
and drip yourself once a day.
The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you.
Can you imagine travelling around with that?
The metal implant will set
the bomb detector off in airports,
and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
Impatient youths of the sun
Burning with many colours
Flick combs through hair In bathroom mirrors
Fucking with fusion and fashion
Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
Mating on suburban duvets
Cum splattered nuclear breeders
What a time that was
The drip ticks out the seconds,
the source of a stream
along which the minutes flow,
to join the river of hours,
the sea of years
and the timeless ocean.
The side effects of DHPG,
the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are:
Low white blood cell count,
increased risk of infection,
low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding,
low red blood cell count (anaemia),
fever, rush, abnormal liver function,
chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections,
malaise, irregular heart beat,
high blood pressure (hypertension),
low blood pressure (hypotension),
abnormal thoughts or dreams,
loss of balance (ataxia),
coma, confusion, dizziness, headache,
nervousness, damage to nerves (paraesthesia), psychosis,
sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting,
loss of appetite (anorexia),
diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage),
abdominal pain,
increased number of one type of white blood cell,
low blood sugar, shortness of breath,
hair loss (alopecia),
itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine,
abnormal kidney functions,
increased blood urea,
redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
Retinal detachments have been observed in patients
both before and after initiation of therapy.
The drug has caused
decreased sperm production in animals
and may cause infertility in humans,
and birth defects in animals.
Although there is no information in human studies,
it should be considered a potential carcinogen
since it causes tumours in animals.
If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects
or if you would like any further information,
please ask your doctor.
In order to be put on the drug
you have to sign a piece of paper stating
you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
I really can't see what I am to do.
I am going to sign it.
The darkness comes in with the tide
The year slips on the calendar
Your kiss flares
A match struck in the night
Flares and dies
My slumber broken
Kiss me again
Kiss me
Kiss me again And again
Never enough
Greedy lips
Speedwell eyes
Blue skies
A man sits in his wheelchair, his hair awry,
munching through a packet of dried biscuits,
slow and deliberate as a praying mantis.
He speaks enthusiastically
but sometimes incoherently of the hospice.
He says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there,
there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart.
The staff have nothing to identify them
except they are all into leather.
The place is like an S&M club".
This hospice has been built by charity,
the names of the donors displayed
for all to see.
Charity has allowed the uncaring
to appear to care
and is terrible for those dependent on it.
Charity's big business.
We go along with this,
so the rich and powerful who fucked us over once
fuck us over again
and get it both ways.
We have always been mistreated,
so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy
we overreact with our thanks.
I am a mannish
Muff diving
Size queen
With bad attitude
An arse licking Psychofag
Molesting the flies of privacy
Balling lesbian boys
A perverted heterodemon
Crossing
purpose with death
I am a cock sucking
straight acting Lesbian man
He is a cock sucking
straight acting Lesbian man
With ball crushing bad manners
Laddish nymphomaniac politics
Spunky sexist desires Of incestuous inversion
and incorrect terminology
I am a Not Gay
H.B. is in the kitchen Greasing his hair
He guards the space Against me
He calls it his office
At nine we leave for the hospital
H.B. comes back from the eye dept
Where all my notes are muddled
He says It's like Romania in there
Two light bulbs grimly illuminate The flaking walls
There is a box of dolls in a corner Indescribably grim
The doctor says:
"Well of course
the kids don't see them"
''There are no resources To brighten the place up''.
My eyes sting from the drops
The infection has halted
The flash leaves
Scarlet after images Of the blood vessels in my eye
Of the blood vessels in my eye
Teeth chattering February
Cold as death Pushes at the bedsheets
An aching cold Interminable as marble
My mind
Frosted with drugs ices up
A drift of empty snowflakes
Whiting out memory
A blinkered twister
Circling in spirals
Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
Shall I? Will I?
Doodling death watch
Mind how you go
(GOCCIOLIO. MUSICA IN SOTTOFONDO)
Oral DHPG
is consumed by the liver,
so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system.
What risk is there?
If I had to live forty years blind,
I might think twice.
Treat my illness like the dodgems:
music, bright lights, bumps
and throw yourself into life again.
The pills are the most difficult,
some taste bitter, others are too large.
I'm taking about thirty a day,
a walking chemical laboratory.
I gag on them as I swallow them
and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus.
My face irritates,
as do my back and legs at night.
I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep.
I get up, turn on the light.
Stagger to the bathroom.
If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep.
Films chase through my mind.
Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal.
I cross southern India with a young spirit guide
India the land of my dreaming childhood.
The souvenirs in Moselle's peach and grey living room.
Granny called Moselle,
called `Girly',
called May.
An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben.
Jade monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg.
The winds and bamboos of China.
All the old taboos
of Blood lines and blood banks
Blue blood and bad blood
Our blood and your blood
I sit here you sit there
As I slept
a jet slammed into a tower block.
The jet was almost empty
but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
A young man frail as Belsen
Walks slowly down the corridor
His pale green hospital pyjamas Hanging off him
It's very quiet
Just the distant coughing
My jugsy eye blots out the young man
who has walked past my field of vision
This illness knocks you for six
Just as you start to forget it
A bullet in the back of my head
Might be easier
You know, you can take longer than the second world war
to get to the grave.
Ages and Aeons quit the room
Exploding into timelessness
No entrances or exits now
No need for obituaries or final judgements
We knew that time would end
After tomorrow at sunrise
We scrubbed the floors And did the washing up
It would not catch us unawares
The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common
when the retina is damaged.
The damaged retina has started to peel away
leaving innumerable black floaters,
like a flock of starlings swirling around in the twilight.
I am back at St Mary's
to have my eyes looked at by the specialist.
The place is the same, but there is new staff.
How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning
to have a tap put into my chest.
I must try and cheer up H.B.
as he has had a hell of a fortnight.
In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting
as he has to get to Sussex.
He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
A little later he picks up a newspaper,
struggles with it for a moment
and throws it back on the table.
My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading,
so I write this in a haze of belladonna.
The little grey man's face has fallen
into tragedy.
He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance.
The room is full of men and women
squinting into the dark
in different states of illness.
Some barely able to walk,
distress and anger on every face
and then a terrible resignation.
Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses,
he looks about him with an undescribable meanness.
He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers,
a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket.
The posters that plaster the walls above him
have endless question marks,
HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?
ARE YOU AFFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?
AIDS?, ARC?, HIV?
This is a hard wait.
The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera
leaves that empty sky blue after-image.
Did I really see green the first time?
The after-image dissolves in a second.
As the photographs progress,
colours change to pink
and the light turns to orange.
The process is a torture,
but the result, stable eyesight,
worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day.
Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous
and want to skip them.
It must be my association with H.B.,
lover of the computer and king of the keyboard
that brought my luck on the computer
which chose my name
for this drug trial.
I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's
I smiled at Jean Cocteau.
He gave a sweet smile back.
I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window.
I thought of going in and buying a pair,
but stopped myself.
The shoes I am wearing at the moment
should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
Pearl fishers In azure seas
Deep waters Washing the isle of the dead
In coral harbours amphora spill gold Across the still seabed
We lie there
Fanned by the billowing Sails of forgotten ships
Tossed by the mournful winds Of the deep
Lost Boys
Sleep forever
In a dear embrace Salt lips touching
In submarine gardens
Cool marble fingers Touch an antique smile
Shell sounds
Whisper Deep
love drifting on the tide forever
The smell of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's summer
His blue jeans Around his ankles
Bliss in my ghostly eye
Kiss me on the lips On the eyes
Our name will be forgotten in time
No one will remember our work
Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
And be scattered like mist that is chased by the rays of the sun
For our time is the passing of a shadow
And our lives will run like sparks through the stubble
I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave.
To H.B. and to all the true lovers
When he opens his eyes and sees the light
You make him cry out.
Saying O Blue come forth
O Blue arise
O Blue ascend
O Blue come in
I am sitting with some friends in this café
drinking coffee
served by young refugees from Bosnia.
The war rages across the newspapers
and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
Tania said:
"Your clothes are on back to front and inside out."
Since there were only two of us here I took them off and put them right
then and there.
I am always here before the doors open.
What need of so much news from abroad
while all that concerns either life or death
is all transacting and at work within me.
I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down.
Flying in from the dark
he nearly parted my hair.
I step into a blue funk.
The doctor in St Bartholomew's Hospital thought
he could detect lesions in my retina
the pupils dilated with belladonna
the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
Look left Look down
Look up Look right
Blue flashes in my eyes.
Blue Bottle buzzing
Lazy days
The sky blue butterfly Sways on a cornflower
Lost in the warmth Of the blue heat haze
Singing the blues
Quiet and slowly Blue of my heart
Blue of my dreams
Slow blue love
Of delphinium days
Blue is the universal love
in which man bathes it is the terrestrial paradise.
I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale
Another year is passing
In the roaring waters
I hear the voices of dead friends
Love is life that lasts forever.
My heart's memory turns to you
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
David.
Howard.
Graham.
Terry.
PauI.
But what if this present Were the world's last night
In the setting sun your love fades
Dies in the moonlight
Fails to rise
Thrice denied by cock crow
In the dawn's first light
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
The camera flash Atomic bright Photos
The CMV a green moon then the world turns magenta
My retina
Is a distant planet
A red Mars
From a Boy's Own comic
With yellow infection Bubbling at the corner
I said this looks like a planet
The doctor says:
" Oh, I think It looks like a pizza"
The worst of the illness is the uncertainty.
I've played this scenario back and forth each
hour of the day for the last six years.
Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
I am home with the blinds drawn
H.B. is back from Newcastle But gone out
The washing Machine is roaring away And the fridge is defrosting
These are his favourite sounds
I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital
or coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip.
My vision will never come back.
The retina is destroyed,
though when the bleeding stops
what is left of my sight might improve.
I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
If I lose half my sight will my vision be halved?
The virus rages fierce.
I have no friends now who are not dead or dying.
Like a blue frost it caught them.
At work, at the cinema,
on marches and beaches.
In churches on their knees, running,
flying, silent or shouting protest.
It started with sweats in the night
and swollen glands.
Then the black cancers
spread across their faces
as they fought for breath
TB and pneumonia hammered at the lungs
and Toxo at the brain.
Reflexes scrambled
sweat poured through hair
matted like lianas in the tropical forest.
Voices slurred
and then were lost forever.
My pen chased this story across the page
tossed this way and that in the storm.
The blood of sensibility is blue
I consecrate myself To fìnd its most perfect expression
My sight failed a little more in the night
H.B. offers me his blood
It will kill everything he says
The drip of DHPG
Trills like a canary
I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears.
I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
I hold out my hands before me
and slowly part them.
At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes.
This is how I used to see.
Now if I repeat the motion, this is all I see.
I shall not win the battle against the virus
in spite of the slogans like `Living with AIDS'.
The virus was appropriated by the well
so we have to live with AIDS
while they spread the quilt
for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost.
A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
Thinking blind, becoming blind.
In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb.
The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm.
We give up after five attempts.
Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm?
I've got used to it but I still shut my eyes.
The Gautama Buddha instructs me
to walk away from illness.
But he wasn't attached to a drip.
Fate is the strongest
Fate
Fated
Fatal
I resign myself to Fate
Blind Fate
The drip stings
A lump swells up in my arm
Out comes the drip
An electric shock sparks up my arm
How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
How am I going to walk away from this?
I fìll this room with the echo of many voices
Who passed time here
Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
The sun comes and floods this empty room
I call it my room
My room
has welcomed many summers
Embraced laughter and tears
Can it fìll itself with your laughter
Each word a sunbeam Glancing in the light
This is the song of My Room
Blue stretches
yawns
and is awake.
(sussurrando) Paul.
(sussurrando) Howard.
There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia.
They look out of time.
Peasant women with scarves and black dresses
stepped from the pages of an older Europe.
One of them has lost her three children.
Lightning flickers through the hospital window
at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear.
I ask her if I can give her a lift
I've hailed a taxi.
"Can you take me to Holborn tube?"
On the way she breaks down in tears.
She has come from Edinburgh.
Her son is in the ward
he has meningitis and
has lost the use of his legs
I'm helpless as the tears flow.
I can't see her.
Just the sound of her sobbing.
One can know the whole world
Without stirring abroad
Without looking out of the window
One can see the way of heaven
The further one goes The less one knows
In the pandemonium of image
I present you with the universal Blue
Blue an open door to soul
An infinite possibility
Becoming tangible
Here I am again in the waiting room.
Hell on Earth is a waiting room.
Here you know you are not in control of yourself,
waiting for your name to be called:
Here you have no name
confìdentiality is nameless.
Where is 666?
Am I sitting opposite him/her?
Maybe 666 is the demented woman
switching the channels on the TV.
What do I see
Past the gates of conscience?
Activists invading Sunday Mass
In the cathedral An epic Czar Ivan
denouncing the Patriarch of Moscow
A moon-faced boy who spits
and repeatedly crosses himself as he genuflects
Will the pearly gates slam shut
in the faces of the devout?
The demented woman is discussing needles
there is always a discussion of needles here.
She has a line put into her neck.
How are we perceived
if we are to be perceived at all?
For the most part we are invisible.
If the doors of Perception were cleansed
then everything would be seen as it is.
The dog barks, the caravan passes.
Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
Marco Polo stops and sits
on a lapis throne by the River Oxus
while he is ministered to by the descendants
of Alexander the Great.
The caravan approaches,
blue canvasses fluttering in the wind.
Blue people from over the sea ultramarine
have come to collect
the lapis with its flecks of gold.
The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth
built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight
cause terrible blindness.
The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals,
magnify them and drive you into madness.
Blue walks into the labyrinth.
Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors,
so their presence does not disturb the poets
who are directing the excavations.
Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days
as rain and wind destroy the finds.
The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected
and the systematic cataloguing of words
has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way.
Blue watched as a word or phrase
materialised in scintillating sparks,
a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness
with the brightness of its reflections.
As a teenager I used to work
for the Royal National Institute for the Blind
on their Christmas appeal for radios
with dear miss Punch, seventy years old
who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
She kept us on our toes.
Her job as a gardener
gave her time to spare in January.
Miss Punch Leather Woman
was the first out dyke I ever met.
Closeted and frightened by my sexuality
she was my hope.
"Climb on, let's go for a ride."
She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow,
and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle.
She bossed all the other old girls
who came back year after year
for her company.
In the paper today.
Three quarters of the AIDS organisations
are not providing safer sex information.
One district said they had no queers in their community
but you might try district X
they have a theatre.
My sight seems to have closed in.
The hospital is even quieter this morning.
Hushed.
I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I feel defeated.
My mind bright as a button
but my body falling apart
a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room.
There is death in the air here, but we are not talking about it.
But I know the silence might be broken
by distraught visitors screaming:
"Help, Sister! Help Nurse!"
followed by the sound of feet
rushing along the corridor.
Then silence.
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita
where all at the end of the line call.
Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause.
The saint of all who are at their wit's end
who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world.
These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy
in a system of unreality.
Would all these blurred facts that deceive
dissolve in his last breath?
For accustomed to believing in image,
an absolute idea of value
his world had forgotten the command of essence:
Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself
Any Graven Image
although you know the task
is to fill the empty page.
From the bottom of your heart,
pray to be released from image.
The image is a prison of the soul,
your heredity, your education,
your vices and aspirations,
your qualities, your psychological world.
I have walked behind the sky.
(MUSICA IN SOTTOFONDO)
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless blue of Bliss.
To be an astronaut of the void,
leave the comfortable house
that imprisons you with reassurance.
Remember,
To be going and to have are not eternal
fight the fear that engenders the beginning,
the middle
and the end.
For Blue
there are no boundaries or solutions.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
How did my friends cross the cobalt river,
with what did they pay the ferryman?
As they set out for the indigo shore
under this jet-black sky
some died on their feet
with a backward glance.
Did they see Death
with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot,
bruised blue-black
growing dark in the absence of light,
did they hear the blast of trumpets?
David ran home panicked
on the train from Waterloo,
brought back exhausted and unconscious
to die that night.
Terry who mumbled incoherently
into his incontinent tears.
Others faded like flowers
cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper,
parched as the waters of life receded.
Howard turned slowly to stone,
petrified day by day,
his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress
until all we could hear
were his groans on the telephone
circling the globe.
Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair
clasping his knees to his chest
Bananas.
The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot,
bone dry, skeletal,
the black seeds picked
into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin.
He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner.
Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn,
caw of the jet-black crows
spiralling in the yellow.
The lemon goblin stares
from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner.
Sourpuss suicide screams with evil
clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly
whose fetid breath scorches
the trees yellow with ague.
Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry.
He'll stab you in the back.
Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air,
the stink of pus blinds Blue's eyes.
Evil swims in the yellow bile.
Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison.
He crawls over Eve's rotting apple
wasp-like.
Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth
his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas.
They'll piss all over you.
Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared.
Blue transformed into an insectocutor,
his Blue aura frying the foes.
We all contemplated suicide
We hoped for euthanasia
We were lulled into believing
Morphine dispelled pain
Rather than making it tangible
Like a mad Disney cartoon
Transforming itself into Every conceivable nightmare
Karl killed himself
how did he do it?
I never asked.
It seemed incidental.
What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid
or shot himself in the eye.
Maybe he dived into the streets
from high up in the cloud-lapped skyscrapers.
The nurse explains the implant.
You mix the drugs
and drip yourself once a day.
The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you.
Can you imagine travelling around with that?
The metal implant will set
the bomb detector off in airports,
and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
Impatient youths of the sun
Burning with many colours
Flick combs through hair In bathroom mirrors
Fucking with fusion and fashion
Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
Mating on suburban duvets
Cum splattered nuclear breeders
What a time that was
The drip ticks out the seconds,
the source of a stream
along which the minutes flow,
to join the river of hours,
the sea of years
and the timeless ocean.
The side effects of DHPG,
the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are:
Low white blood cell count,
increased risk of infection,
low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding,
low red blood cell count (anaemia),
fever, rush, abnormal liver function,
chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections,
malaise, irregular heart beat,
high blood pressure (hypertension),
low blood pressure (hypotension),
abnormal thoughts or dreams,
loss of balance (ataxia),
coma, confusion, dizziness, headache,
nervousness, damage to nerves (paraesthesia), psychosis,
sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting,
loss of appetite (anorexia),
diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage),
abdominal pain,
increased number of one type of white blood cell,
low blood sugar, shortness of breath,
hair loss (alopecia),
itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine,
abnormal kidney functions,
increased blood urea,
redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
Retinal detachments have been observed in patients
both before and after initiation of therapy.
The drug has caused
decreased sperm production in animals
and may cause infertility in humans,
and birth defects in animals.
Although there is no information in human studies,
it should be considered a potential carcinogen
since it causes tumours in animals.
If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects
or if you would like any further information,
please ask your doctor.
In order to be put on the drug
you have to sign a piece of paper stating
you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
I really can't see what I am to do.
I am going to sign it.
The darkness comes in with the tide
The year slips on the calendar
Your kiss flares
A match struck in the night
Flares and dies
My slumber broken
Kiss me again
Kiss me
Kiss me again And again
Never enough
Greedy lips
Speedwell eyes
Blue skies
A man sits in his wheelchair, his hair awry,
munching through a packet of dried biscuits,
slow and deliberate as a praying mantis.
He speaks enthusiastically
but sometimes incoherently of the hospice.
He says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there,
there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart.
The staff have nothing to identify them
except they are all into leather.
The place is like an S&M club".
This hospice has been built by charity,
the names of the donors displayed
for all to see.
Charity has allowed the uncaring
to appear to care
and is terrible for those dependent on it.
Charity's big business.
We go along with this,
so the rich and powerful who fucked us over once
fuck us over again
and get it both ways.
We have always been mistreated,
so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy
we overreact with our thanks.
I am a mannish
Muff diving
Size queen
With bad attitude
An arse licking Psychofag
Molesting the flies of privacy
Balling lesbian boys
A perverted heterodemon
Crossing
purpose with death
I am a cock sucking
straight acting Lesbian man
He is a cock sucking
straight acting Lesbian man
With ball crushing bad manners
Laddish nymphomaniac politics
Spunky sexist desires Of incestuous inversion
and incorrect terminology
I am a Not Gay
H.B. is in the kitchen Greasing his hair
He guards the space Against me
He calls it his office
At nine we leave for the hospital
H.B. comes back from the eye dept
Where all my notes are muddled
He says It's like Romania in there
Two light bulbs grimly illuminate The flaking walls
There is a box of dolls in a corner Indescribably grim
The doctor says:
"Well of course
the kids don't see them"
''There are no resources To brighten the place up''.
My eyes sting from the drops
The infection has halted
The flash leaves
Scarlet after images Of the blood vessels in my eye
Of the blood vessels in my eye
Teeth chattering February
Cold as death Pushes at the bedsheets
An aching cold Interminable as marble
My mind
Frosted with drugs ices up
A drift of empty snowflakes
Whiting out memory
A blinkered twister
Circling in spirals
Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
Shall I? Will I?
Doodling death watch
Mind how you go
(GOCCIOLIO. MUSICA IN SOTTOFONDO)
Oral DHPG
is consumed by the liver,
so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system.
What risk is there?
If I had to live forty years blind,
I might think twice.
Treat my illness like the dodgems:
music, bright lights, bumps
and throw yourself into life again.
The pills are the most difficult,
some taste bitter, others are too large.
I'm taking about thirty a day,
a walking chemical laboratory.
I gag on them as I swallow them
and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus.
My face irritates,
as do my back and legs at night.
I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep.
I get up, turn on the light.
Stagger to the bathroom.
If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep.
Films chase through my mind.
Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal.
I cross southern India with a young spirit guide
India the land of my dreaming childhood.
The souvenirs in Moselle's peach and grey living room.
Granny called Moselle,
called `Girly',
called May.
An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben.
Jade monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg.
The winds and bamboos of China.
All the old taboos
of Blood lines and blood banks
Blue blood and bad blood
Our blood and your blood
I sit here you sit there
As I slept
a jet slammed into a tower block.
The jet was almost empty
but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
A young man frail as Belsen
Walks slowly down the corridor
His pale green hospital pyjamas Hanging off him
It's very quiet
Just the distant coughing
My jugsy eye blots out the young man
who has walked past my field of vision
This illness knocks you for six
Just as you start to forget it
A bullet in the back of my head
Might be easier
You know, you can take longer than the second world war
to get to the grave.
Ages and Aeons quit the room
Exploding into timelessness
No entrances or exits now
No need for obituaries or final judgements
We knew that time would end
After tomorrow at sunrise
We scrubbed the floors And did the washing up
It would not catch us unawares
The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common
when the retina is damaged.
The damaged retina has started to peel away
leaving innumerable black floaters,
like a flock of starlings swirling around in the twilight.
I am back at St Mary's
to have my eyes looked at by the specialist.
The place is the same, but there is new staff.
How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning
to have a tap put into my chest.
I must try and cheer up H.B.
as he has had a hell of a fortnight.
In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting
as he has to get to Sussex.
He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
A little later he picks up a newspaper,
struggles with it for a moment
and throws it back on the table.
My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading,
so I write this in a haze of belladonna.
The little grey man's face has fallen
into tragedy.
He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance.
The room is full of men and women
squinting into the dark
in different states of illness.
Some barely able to walk,
distress and anger on every face
and then a terrible resignation.
Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses,
he looks about him with an undescribable meanness.
He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers,
a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket.
The posters that plaster the walls above him
have endless question marks,
HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?
ARE YOU AFFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?
AIDS?, ARC?, HIV?
This is a hard wait.
The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera
leaves that empty sky blue after-image.
Did I really see green the first time?
The after-image dissolves in a second.
As the photographs progress,
colours change to pink
and the light turns to orange.
The process is a torture,
but the result, stable eyesight,
worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day.
Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous
and want to skip them.
It must be my association with H.B.,
lover of the computer and king of the keyboard
that brought my luck on the computer
which chose my name
for this drug trial.
I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's
I smiled at Jean Cocteau.
He gave a sweet smile back.
I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window.
I thought of going in and buying a pair,
but stopped myself.
The shoes I am wearing at the moment
should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
Pearl fishers In azure seas
Deep waters Washing the isle of the dead
In coral harbours amphora spill gold Across the still seabed
We lie there
Fanned by the billowing Sails of forgotten ships
Tossed by the mournful winds Of the deep
Lost Boys
Sleep forever
In a dear embrace Salt lips touching
In submarine gardens
Cool marble fingers Touch an antique smile
Shell sounds
Whisper Deep
love drifting on the tide forever
The smell of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's summer
His blue jeans Around his ankles
Bliss in my ghostly eye
Kiss me on the lips On the eyes
Our name will be forgotten in time
No one will remember our work
Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
And be scattered like mist that is chased by the rays of the sun
For our time is the passing of a shadow
And our lives will run like sparks through the stubble
I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave.
To H.B. and to all the true lovers