From Monday’s frown, To Friday’s cheery sound, Misha is on my merry mind.
With January’s snow And August’s warm glow Misha blooms a peony in my heart.
When war breaks, The world shakes; But, Misha is most kind.
Like a busy bee napping on petals, Is drunk on pollen’s fuzzy love. Misha is my other part.
With love and affection; Dearest Evie. The dream in which you leave me, haunts deeper than able to mention.
If words count for tears I’d cry without you by my side, count me a poet. Your wildest wishes, so be it. A shimmering moon pulling heartstrings as the tide.
For sickness and suffering are invalid, as long as you’re by my ribs I’ll build you in pyramids, from nothing but stone and twigs.
My soaring dove. Oh, to be your soft hands glove. To hold you, Evie, and feel your earnest love.
Never again will I bare to see myself hung out on the washing line, folded in halves. Both apathetic, both tired. Never will I let myself go so far that I end up pegged and rinsed, the dirt remaining on my nicotine skin. It will happen again of course. It always does. I always run through the machine. Even if i’m okay, I’m still there. I’m always on spin cycle.
Soft spotlit skin glows in a wee twirl with a gnarled brough Brush back the buckling rosehip bush and elm branch Scuffing up shavings of flesh from your forearm You fear the warm, purple, dawning sun, furthermore the whispering hedgerows
Through patterned gaps in the trees you flinch at every harsh beat of sunbeam and heed its heat having it’s hot way on the apples of your cheeks. The sun is setting now, sleep is best done in a bed, not a woodland floor.
As darkness swallows the air around you and rest is anticipated within a sparse coverage of twigs and honeysuckle eerie woos echo off tree trunks Perhaps something is crawling near.
You swing your body in seek of something, someone, near and visible, but all you come to find is shades of harsh and soft grey outlines of towering pine trees and twitching leaves. The night is soft but the wind grows more violent and a howl fills the gaps between, growls nearing, closer, to your left, Eastbound, Southbound then back again, closer and louder dead leaves crunch and you spin, you hear the sound of the brittle ground beneath your feet and stop. Am I the creature? Your body firms, skin crawls but you are attentive, and still. Still, in this forest. Still, alone. At least the sun is on its way to save you. You sigh.
The forest is alight with a loudening drumming. Cicadas bang and flies buzz through you, the chaos is far from finished. You feel this. Creeping it’s way up your boot and onto your leg and over your knee, further it travels, rising your thigh and it itches, it crawls; A white tail spider is on your leg. Abort all other current conditions, you are safe, as long as you get that thing off of you, NOW. Brush the gnarled insect from your flesh and feel it’s phantom legs tingle. Goosebumps. Sigh. Alert again you lift your face, eyes to the void ever-forth, a calm sigh.
A crackling twig to your left, you spin once more, sucked right back into the chaos, you miss the spider. The trees woo and bats screach, your heartbeat now audible to the world around you, danger lurks. To your right now, snap. Between a crowd of staring stumps and looming logs, in a small slit stands a shadow. Once firm now frozen, you stand face to face with the absence of light, the formation of your polarity. It’s you, but not you. With a curious head tilt it’s arms open, widening as you slightly stumble backwards, cautious.
Is there something it wants? Maybe it’s lonely. A nocturnal creature would be very lonely, with nothing but spiders and sleeping shrub to keep it company. No light, no warmth. You step toward it, feeling the comfort grow from it’s open chest. Hug it, you say to yourself, you could use a hug. But the next step taken is the last rush of any kind of warmth, the creature lunges. Running toward you at full speed. You fumble over foliage and fearful feet, on your back now, hands scuffed you guard your eyes deep in your lap. Stay in the dark…
Still rocking back and forth, keeping time with the toads’ croak turned wattle-bird whistle. Your head still pummelled deep in your legs you open your eyes and see. Unfolding your tight limbs to beacon the tepid sunlight and stand. The morning has arrived. You turn back to assess the environment you’ve burnt into and see your shadow has returned to you. Strung to you by your feet and carrying.
Car horns sound nearby and you sigh. Safe on the highway at last.
I am a trinket on your shelf An inanimate doll added to your collection But I see you sleep, I too see you sneeze Collecting your mucus on your bedside table in clumps.
We, the Worry-Dolls, Picture Books, Clay Tea-Pots and the odd nostalgic childhood momentos, we conspire, while your closing eyelids tire and oscillate timely each night. Until that routine time, static is all you see from We.
A nightly compulsion grew, into a heaping DNA-snot-pool. My ceramic skin is flaking, dust. Yet you find yourself parenting the biting mites.
If you knew I could feel and think, you’d have polished my buck-teeth long ago. If you’d have known our thoughts as we do yours, a shiny turntable and weekly clean for your G.I Joe and friends.
But you’re a hoarder, Boy. We all know it, all of us - bar you.
Now I, solomnly sat upon this lifted ray of light the ants accept me now as never before steering clear from my body as to not shake me they know i don’t allign, they sense my specialties shine
cross roads and dark matter i never crossed that highway so tell me why i mustn’t die. uncle up there upon your impish cloud tell me.
if the day must never end, why can’t i chase the sun? i see my legs are but pale as too my mind is frail but i beg, as i shan’t inquire
uncle within all wind, won’t you whisk me thick, white and translucent, sire? you gave me your number but refuse to speak, if at all; For my certainty in your glory. And then beat my eggs one by one, a son, yours, is undone - wrapped then in foxtail-wire and drenched. you scored my cheek with your psalm but the heavens vaporised down onto him, you’re mist.
how do you hear us and insist we wouldn’t hound we are burning from beneath because of you’re becoming. Alas comrades, we do not give in to the heat he who has heed the fierce hoard once shall rise, climbing heat, still, for he is asleep now, in our magma crust.
I had this dumbbell-weight I lifted once. To relieve my body of its sorry spine, Hopeful ghosting, un-sent in increments, Each day successfully passed without a response like a newly blown balloon added to my bucket’s handle, I take one dose daily. But every ghost became so somehow.
One week now, I expected my much needed housekeys, packaged en-closure. Prolonged dissonance is a farewell. All it took was a single slice of the scissors, a surprising, extra, package in the post; And I knew as soon as I saw this CD spine. That this - mustn’t - be the place.
