Ode to Mrs Slovenly....
Mr ScratchyRainbow hues brushed asideDark thoughts furtively enticingExalt;'Enbrace me!'Damp sheetsVeil conscious thought,dappled vigin lightRecessed shadows running tandemContradict the here and now.Waking dreams leach my willDumped almost lifeless on the floor,pillowsScattered,comfort lost.Struggling weakly to my kneesTender,gravel peppered palmsEnrage.Anger swells my tongue asCarrion creatures jostleExcitement builds,theyScreech and peck in mountingFrenzy.Bruised and bloodiedAccepting of my fateDull ringing echoes,skullBludgeoned from inside:Then.Silence.Intensly bright,white paperCauterizes emotion,staringBlankly i paint myself aMask and call himMr. Scratchy.His long armsFlailing awkwardly,knots in stringPropel the ungainly-Unbalanced as i am by you,Buried somewhere inside meToying with my metal plated heart,iStruggle,shove you hard'Back in your box!'Naughty Twinkle Toes.Valiantly,down the yearsAttrition was your sword,randomVictories grudgingly acknowleged
.she'll hold him tight tonightand dread the coming mo(u)rning
a picture of perfectionShe was a painting;not a Rembrant or a Da Vinci...much more vibrant than those, she wasthe fade of Monet,her quirks just shy of a Picasso portrait,and at the same time not quite shy enough.She was a Van Gogh landscape:full and bright and articulate and beautiful-but a real mess up close.Like someone forgot that when you make peoplethey're supposed to stay inside the lines.
Night SkyPaint me a story of words,the clouds and sky sit as a attentive audience.The stars outline filled with memories of our epic journey.Hands will be joined together underthe light of the Haley’s Comet.The man in the moon will stay hidden in the moon,we’ll seek him out while sitting on our picnic basket.
Mask Pt.2Dissolve these demonicMasksWe wear,And we'll seeWe all look the same.But I've foundThey aren't easilyTaken off.I've found it too difficultTo undress these thoughts,Instead, I wrap themIn jackets & scarvesTo match this coldWorld.
GoneGoing far awayObserving the road aheadNever considering going backEnding another chapter of my story
ways we constellate/a. dictitious/iam well-woven.iam a spellthat does not releaseand never tells.these constructionsi allow,and betterawakento speak in hearttonesand hymnbeatson rugged pavements.ihave builtart./b.beautine/this body hasforgotten its infinitebeatings, denieditself the luxuryof acceptancethis body hasremembered its lovers'last names, phone numbers,birthmarks and kindnessthe only cruelty this vessel knowsis from its middlesi have riddled myself intowarmth/c.capabuilt/these handsare imbuedwith patient dynamismand ichorthat the goddessessavorthey have movedmountain rangesand hoisted dark seasoverhead,then returned themdeftlysuch instruments deserve morethan my doubtsihave cloudedthe veins tenacious/d.aitbaar/i allowed thesehands to hold me.i have yet to feellike lessthan a Dalidreammy little ashesare coming closethe Gangeslost its murkto me; i carryremainsi house brokennesstill it is perfectedkintsugi
i saw, and i learnedthere are several ways to voice thisbut the geometry of a bridge. thrashingcrystalline fish. it is a caseof damaged magnetism they sayit is a dark maze they say and someone will greet you at the entrancenow, she gestures, watch me unravel-there is a sense of napalm in the third lane. a liningof damp thread, animal saliva.the woman leans on the tailgate, exhausted.what are grey curds? skin coming off or caked mudas a car splashes her standingmotionless. the revolving doors of her arms, crossed over chest, as the wire is cut.the girl tumbles into the back of the truck. you were the water, snake and corner, watchful with the wariness of all things orphaned.in the shadow of the aircraftall colours are muted.now which wire is red?this frequency is resonant:a hard labour
MemoriesI would spill gasolineOn my memoriesAnd set them on fireIf it didn't implyMelting the outlinesOf my beingSpreading the atomsInto nothingnessAnd losing trackOf my existenceCrafted fromMoments
au(roar)aa shy glow of apologeticsunrises, she will neverknow how beautiful she ishis magpie eyes, they pryat her colours, leavingher with onlythe itch of dried tear tracksat 3 in the morningrough tissues scrape at herdelicate nose,strewn around her like white flowersthat he never gave to her.and he never showed herthe glow of the stars,a bond between this morning girl and the universehe could’veshe would’vethey should’ve beenentwined in dawning light, buthe was a night guard and nightis afraid of staining golden black.so she took the light caged in her heartand threw it intothe abyss of sorry’s and i love you’snever saidas the moth he was,he followed.she wanted him to catcha spark (on fire)instead, he never came back.sometimes the midnight feelswarmer than a sunrise-it guards her and between the blackshe is beautifulfinally, the emptine