He came from one of the last
and smelled like nude chirality
like the nature we have shed
And he walked walls instead
of floors, and ate the air
instead of words
the barbarian we used to be
He did not look at me, but wore
every colour of the sky and more
around his neck
This, I think, is the only explanation
What love did I have that
Could ride hawk’s red
To the underside of the dawn?
I sat sipping the dregs
Of the radio connection
Dying in my palm
Some part I must have said aloud
Sky curling in and earth drying out
And I overseeing nothing
On an overturned cracked bucket
Where the road crumbled
And birds forgot to sing
Continue reading “Solar-powered raft”
The poetry in the spaghetti
Had me coming back for seconds
I met her in a soup tureen
Her glare almost gave me compound fractures
But I told her we should go for a dip
For some reason she humoured me
And then we lived happily on the sill together
Peace was the last thing on our minds
And food somewhere near second
Until she remembered herself and asked
“Shouldn’t you be more necessary to my happiness?”
But I alone was never necessary to anyone
She took her honey crumbs, and flew away
Sleep slower, and maybe you’ll notice curious things. Be wary of using words like “indefinitely” – this comes with a poem:
Baby, I’ll crawl to you
across the vast mirage of time and space
should misfortune befall time itself
or the laws of physics break
It has been nearly a year since I first read the post “sleep slowly”, and the four lines of that poem still come back to me. Continue reading “Parallel Outlet: 11”
Mrs. DeWhitt was a bit too unerring in her instincts for her own good. Somehow, whether by the curling of her toes or a pinch in her right shoulder, she knew when Mr. DeWhitt was inappropriately occupied with the nth chamber maid, the girl-who-came-only-on-Wednesdays, the innkeep’s daughter, or any other bit of female miscellany under the age of thirty.
During these times (which constituted most of the time) Mr. DeWhitt would often be puzzled to find his dinner late, cold, or absent; his gloves, or cuff links, or rifle missing; his galoshes continually, inexplicably muddied; and his best scotch disappearing faster than he could rightly account for.
Unfortunately for the marriage, Mrs. DeWhitt exercised her powers in so natural and unconscious a manner, and Mr. DeWhitt was so far from thinking these mishaps anything but coincidence, that the gentleman never realized that he was receiving his just desserts, and the lady was never content.
It felt like an age had passed while I was in the restroom. Yet it hadn’t been long enough. The older I get the less these conditional holidays seem like holidays at all, and more like work in disguise.
Reluctantly, I turned towards the voice and the mountains. Either it was my imagination or the twilight on that side of the plaza was deepening; shadows darkening the flowers among the scrub, and far above them, the pines and the crags. Someone had seen fit to leave a stone table on the grass not far from me, and its weathered scrollwork, and cracked surface, managed to convey forlornness amid the rest of this zytocoke-fueled fantasy.
Mavind was sitting there, waiting for me with her cream self perched upon the faded grey, feet off the ground and legs swaying slightly. The table might as well have been placed for her. A creeper was growing up one leg. Continue reading “CONDITIONAL HOLIDAYS ARE ALWAYS LESS THAN WHAT THEY SEEM (4/4)”