Pause.

 

This little boat cuts so softly through the deep blue cream and, I am off.

Reading the maps and checking the charts, it looks like I am home.

Home, after curving around dark, lost tentacles for far too long.

Oh mornings, you bring in the cold.

Oh past, you hook your fingers in as I transform.

So, I talk and sing all night, turning lights on in my new home.

Only..I think of your face, written by my new notes; an opus that had but one intermission.

It’s just that I am the ghost of your lungs, emanating from every hole in your two bodies, serenading as I move ON.

Countdown.

The cold like a caterpillar

inching across the length of my appendages

nibbling on a toe here, finger there,

a plump & persistent nature

munching hole punch absences

into leafy skin

I kicked a patch of white

with quaking boots,

upset the granular formation of winter

as my brain sputtered out euphemisms

for the feelings of a dwindling existence

I permeate the negative space

of these daily illustrations

align tea leaves in prophetic formations

and call it fate

March sighs; I get caught up

in the shaky expulsions of breath,

trace my name backwards on the insides

of foggy windows,

As if in some declaration of my

grasp on the present tense.

Splut.

Neptune, honeymoon.

Shot my body in a swoon.

There came a downpour;A wet love monsoon….

A long hard rain of frozen stars, to unzip wounds and scars

That was the last page ending.

Before I wrote it all out

on my bed, next to him. (in my head) and in the morning sunrise

I begun to write out entries from his backside

And it started with her

“In a fetal curvature position.

A vulnerable spooning alignment

Like a crescent roll needing more dough

I never moved

I just watched him sleep over

Like a gentlewoman would.

Long distant lawns

Mowing him to a foreign countries

India or Russia

It didn’t matter which

The colours are the most important to him

He was running through

Fine grassy hillocks

Passing by

Skeletal trees undressed and famished

With privates hanging out

Or concaving in

Depending on gender or mood

Marbled circular drops flew by

Once the neighbour’s shower

Turned on, from the next wall over

He said something far far away

But I couldn’t make out the words in the wind

Nor could I decode them in his sleep talking

So I counted freckles

On his soft shoulder

As she counted rodents

Appearing and disappearing

Like puppets off of early 80′s children shows

I’m telling you I’m right there with him

Just as he lied there with me

Two worlds reenacting simultaneously

Turning time traveling

Into truthful possibilities

Faster than the speed of sleep.

His eyelashes twitched

His upper lip unfolded

Searching for a pacifier

A nipple, another lip?

Indefinitely a match

Upon comfortable attachment

The birds were chirping louder

Than my alarm

Right outside my cracked window

He’s faintly swayed like the grass

Listening to those same birds as I had

I turned to him more

To get a better view

Never touching

nor peaking at the bare spots

that his clothes forgot to cover

He then awoke in an underwater dream

Once the neighbour stepped out naked

..Coral reefs wrapped around his legs

Like tangled sheets

twisted limbs

He was riding a sea horse

In those white wet underwear

He was blowing glass bubbles

Making artwork in a fishy sphere

It’s been hours while I had written this

On and off like dreams will be.

Blankets.

Mocking?
I’ve killed birds
For less

And i think less
Of those before me
The more i think
About them

I also have no room
For beds
Pillows, drawers,
And the drawn

A dozen lamp posts
Could not bring to light
The moth in me.

Poe.

The wind’s so hard
it’s like it has a message.

I prefer cliff-notes,
& abbreviations.

but this was something
hard to miss,

clearly no deviations.

I’m a mess.

I’m a monster,
guised as a goddess.

I can make a man bend at the knee,
& the biggest liar honest.

but whether or not
I’m merry or
in the key of C minor,

the hotel daydreams
could never be finer-

could never be better
even if at my worst,

or better yet
actually getting rest,

but nonetheless
still remaining cursed.

So I stay & I write
stagnant in a black-in-blue town,

covered in white I wear a half frown.

No, i’m not down (I am)
I just mean to say
It’s better if you cause the bruise

then people will open up to my woes

-call truce-

& leave it at bay.

Cage me.

Is it possible to forget to live the life
You wanted to live
To be a messy soul, wrapped in feathers
Cloud staring and dreaming of drifting away
And not notice
That you are sterilised and stainless steel cold

Fingers caressing the worn bindings of
Market bought books, filled with scribbled
Scrawled, scratched personality
A girl with dirty nails and special stones
A hapless writer that just wanted to
Be wild.

The same fingers that now
Tip tap on computer keys, grip
The cooking pan of mediocrity
Holding plane tickets and fingering money
Never really crying, not actually trying
To fly anymore.

Wanting to sit, nice clothes and all,
In a earthy brown puddle and make mud pies
Let it all dribble down my arms
Cake my hair, stain me irreversibly
Seep and soak and renew the soul that
Is bored in its protective world.

Drag all that security into the sunshine
And watch it melt
-little black dresses, all the excesses-
Find some grass and make a dandelion crown
Become a princess of something a little more
Worthwhile.

Gardener.

a flower…

a dandelion more precisely

grew for years undetected

in my brain

sweetened my clouded thoughts

and quick judgements

with bitter milk

and then turned off-

white, dozens of seeds

parachuted down into my throat

i later learned that the dandelion was no flower

simply a weed and that

my spine

had grown many

as well

as brittle