writing.: for the queen.

Walking across freshly cut lawns, expertly manicured by crude hands
Stirring up savours of temperance.
Where nostrils flare and engage the aroma of the evening in its strange allure
And repose wraps its gaunt frame against the sulphur dipped clouds
This recompense, this isolation,
Lowered beams of sultry light, speckle the grass

And I rejoice.

In these warmer evenings, with smoke loitering on the edges of the dusk
Calling back to the times and times again
Of before
To come back, again
To see what it has been up to in all these years
To crawl against reason 
And resonate within bones, sending waves across goosed flesh
Pushing past the urge of this southern breeze

With the crackling of powdered fire minutes from my ear
Whispering urgently across the wrought wire frame of the window
A beckon, a curled index finger
Drawing this idea further, deeper, submerging the thought of what lies outside the safety of myself
What sensations can be found, what simple amusement to be had
In colour, dotted against a molten sky

Step and stride, bringing suspicion closer
Shaken off with warm shivers.

And I will rejoice
In this evening hymn, in this lecture to the sky, in my tattered sweater
The cooling airs soothe grieving airs in bright gusts and blooms

And I,
With palms spread out against the sky in supplication
For one more minute,
For one more evening
As cunning as this.

writing.: the twelfth.

writing.: number 27.

Murmurs of the heart
Numbing thoughts, repetition of the obvious
‘True love lost through eyes unopened’
How unfortunate

It is
To lie in wait of your return
On sweaty stones
In a desperate fever
A frivolous expense, of time and character
We know it would never happen, yet still we wait
We know what catches your attention
We know 
The stench of your fear and regret
A chicken’s heart
On a pyre, built with tiny hands, laying stone
With penitence, murmuring chants from throats swathed in green,
Ululations, reminders, groans
A hammer to the head, dulling the fact

Don’t forget
Never forget
It is impossible to forget

The smoke curls from the pyre, stretching tendrils to the wind
Tickling the nose of that above
A scented reminder of that which was
And can never be again
Without rhyme nor reason
Just a burning heart, heavy. 
Humor weeps and stains
Left to the vultures, left to the bugs, right.

The smoke
A mark of meeting
When soft lips met and love began
Blown over pictures which were never developed
When time moved slowly,
Stretched twine around butchers’ paper
Lasting moments of embraces, nose under nose,
And a dimple forms
Creased, furrowed, canyons of the flesh
Filling with salt. 

The smoke
Of different things
Clouding vision and reason,
Hovering over a trail of torn paper and holes in walls
Lying,
A blanket of golden film over dank concrete
Hand in hand, amongst the locals. 

We have not been here before. 

When the pause is pulled away
Tearing through time, a vacuum and void
In an instance where what flourished, never existed
The reminder of vacancy
Echoes through this abandoned vessel, which weeps
And stains. 

But the smoke remains

A strangling fist, an awkward touch;
A useless comment.
Piquing ears who ache to hear
Those words
Of blunt ambiguity, nails on a chalkboard
To keep her around, to keep her hoping 
To mask the failure with ignorance and a smile.
Maybe
This will be different than before
A new expression of that which was
And will always be
Corded conviction,
Tethered around a bolted neck
Forever leashed.

319days.

You could offer me escape.
Never present, but forever looming.
I just want to talk.
Someone mutually addicted to me.
But it was too much, to struggle over power without limbs.
When everything is remembered for all the wrong reasons.
And hours stretch beyond their britches.

But when the day is over, so is time. And so is this.

making breakfast.

zammechat:

just a bit more butter, it will taste just fine
like the sun streaming through the dirty window
and my skin licks it up
salivating
droplets of salt and strain
they slide down my thighs, with the lineation
with the grain
with the earth luring it down, as roots are called
to the deep and the crisp
bearing up great stock and branches, weighed heavy with profit
as my eyes, with dreams and grandeur, blink with treacle
slow through gold like blue agave
in French pressed coffee
sipped gently.

the bubbles make them spring
bubbling spring
in an idyllic pasture, brimming with satyrs and bees
bounding through my left ventricle, stride on step
a comfort on taxed muscles, waning under the influence
of dreams
of grandeur
brought about by strains of three
two, once more, and the breeze carries in
through the crackle of the window frame

but it is fresh
and it is sweet
and somehow I can taste his strident nerves
fast between my fingers with red salt
and chilli flakes
so, so sweet

skin on skin, flesh on leather

and devour it fully, wholly, 
forks as knives and crumbs in creases
as we lick our lips and laugh softly at our demise

we still don’t know it all.

writing.: lullaby.

And linger still, above my eyelids
Slowly, awry and humorous,
Pressing towards the lower stance
Pushing me further
Towards this,
State of emergency.

Where the dark is not dark enough
When the black is simply faded
Where the savages,
Long kept within the washed out shadows,
Move without rhythm to narcotic hymns.

A crawling frenzy.

This is bliss and ignorance
This is a fool’s escape
This little orange button,
Sewn to my silk shirt, breast pocket
Warming where it lies
Skipping beats, keeping time
Lulling me with half-whispered words, beckoning sleep.

Enticing me to the deep
Awash with this new flood.

So when I wake, credit cards are strewn across my floor
Candy wrappers tucked beneath my pillow
Linen torn to bits
And I, not with a single memory.