23rd July After Pirates of the Caribean

Sometimes a rope inside you tightens
the spark inside you brightens.
A spindle coils
and a crease soils.
A belt pushes your stomach in,
the wind unhooks the hair pin.
Signs, symbols, marks, labels
tags and boards, all point.
We need a compass. Jack Sparrows compass.

The stillness of the room, the dead of the air
the cloudy breath, all point to your death.
Let not the worlds swallow you,
for my compass still follows you.

Slow movement, dreamy eyes, sad demise
fire flies, silly white lies.
The key, the compass, the letter, the simile
function ,fall, flip, flicker finally
and bring me back to me.
I live on E, you are he.
Why doesn't your compass point to me?
The injured toe
the faltered woe
let her know or let her go.
The world where you belong is her place,
she longs for that world of light
from the back of the heads.
The seats of cloth and the feet.
The moving story of colour and fright
of magic and life.

I live no poem, I write none.
I live in a film and fight one.

All the people, all the heads
all the singles and all the weds,
walk and pass us by, in you my compass resides.
The compass, the one who decides.
The blue waters, the rings,
the sails and the wings.
Your eyes they unlock the treasure,
your arms, all I need for pleasure.

I live on E, you are he.