wednesday

It felt so much like a Wednesday – porous and drifting…
It wasn’t quite cold enough to start a fire, which kind of threw him. It’s always nice to have a fire to work by, when the Wednesday dig starts.  But he reasoned with himself that the digs were getting shallower. Dr. _____ said that was a good thing – the need was lessening, you know, to build defences from the debris he found. They thought he was inching closer to jumping off and grabbing the drifting instead.

He wasn’t sure. He looked down at his journal. Apparently he had been writing in it.

those notes are soaring above me, but there’s blood all over my un-reach. This is the refrain. I need to re-write the refrain. I need to let it rain.

I also need to work on my rhyming.
Maybe Friday.

 

 

it’s time to sleep

the reckoning and the reasoning and the ripening and then the sneezing

the forces unmeasured in the revolt and then the squeezing

of the music into lifelines that drip with hoped unheeding

and she’s covering her ears so no one sees the internal bleeding

with the streams of the thoughts she cannot appropriate

and the dreams and the oughts that she cannot estimate

within her fevered running soul that’s forgotten where it’s been

the itching of the scratch is not at all what they said it’d seem

and she holds the words in front of her in hands that shake with dread

they’re in her own heart language but unrecognized instead

in their current configuration that has come from somewhere other

and if only she could sleep now…

 

 

 

Scrambling…

say no to clowns

through her mind’s thesaurus

she searched for other words for her wrists, singed

her edges smouldering, smoke fringed

internal edges, that is.

Scrambling through the messages in his eyes

he finds the one he wants to send her, hopefully

she’ll read it without doubt, earnestly

not doubting him, that is.

The other he, she should be doubting

he holds that glass, sun’s rays re routing

to warm her, that is

what he’s always told her…

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just a moment/lifetime

beautiful bloom blooming blossom
Photo by Juhasz Imre on Pexels.com

 

His breathing, stopped, he found it. Four dimensionally, he opened it.
Its fragility stunned his eyes with convoluted memory tears, while his new inhalations syphoned the colours from the pages – colours that would help him navigate the convolutions –

that’s when he noticed some words were underlined.  She had underlined them! But the ones left untouched – he smiled – they were the portal.

 

“in a daylight bath”

She hadn’t heard the song in a very long time.
Nor the memories.
They had been wrapped. Sound proof-ed-ly. He had helped her, while they had sat on her empty floor, lit by a perpetually coloured dusk light through her only circular window (or maybe it was the wine they shared.  Its name was her favourite poem about life at the time, something that would make her cringe now the wrapping was peeling back…
“Sweet Bitch”!
That was it.
She did cringe – what a horrible poet she must have been!)

And now, astonished at this unwrapped dust falling through her fingers, she blew it away gently, and bought a bottle of wine.
And replayed the song.

She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.

She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?

Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.

Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.

 

 

modicum

beach sand
Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

 

He studied her blanks, his heart a magnifying glass as he carefully copied out each jot that filled the lens. He often sat back, in surprise and wonder, sometimes awe, sometimes astonishment. Sometimes, sadness, that could not be expressed in any current language, he mourned.

He didn’t have enough colours. But the poetry, brought him to his knees.

dehydration

He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.

He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening.  He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.

I mean, the ones in your silence.

 

 

 

And…

I fell into what I thought was one of my clichéd dreams, filled with doors.
But there was a door that stood out. It stood out because it was familiar.
Still on its hinges despite the relentless wind coming through, I tried to close it.

My neck ached, being in the same position every mourning.

Eons before/maybe last week, I had opened it because I had seen your music through the window of it – blushing colours and adverbs on a stave of missing meaning.
But that was then.
Now it was time to change my glasses. They were tinted, it turned out.

And the door closed.
Gently.

*trigger warning: there are short edits and flashing lights/strobe effects in this video

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what 
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words 
if you press your ear against the stone." 

He hated this place. But she promised it would 
be the last time. And it had started to snow. 
It would hopefully slow the others down. 

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look 
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful 
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting 
from the tears frozen on her face. 

He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.

 

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

Safer Ground, part two

 

Safer Ground, pt 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

no one is around (part one)

She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always 
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen 
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang 
instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before 
they never saw him again.
 "Little girl, there's safer ground..." 

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

 

Lyrics:

Continue reading

those middle paragraphs

Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.

She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was.  She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.

And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car

disappear

this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,

I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me

make these corrugations –

portal permutations,

at least,

they were in my dreams,

the ones

bursting from the seams

of my mind’s eye.

 

From here below periphery,

silent door’s epiphany,

you hear my eyes as you look at me…

 

one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)

Lyrics:

Continue reading

the tears, like that sky, were blue,

balmed in a constant, gentle stream.
Filled with achingly quiet strength, healing purpose. Vibrating with the tenor of a generation.

He carefully strung his violin with them, using the instructions in the back of the book he was holding.
A journal he had found in, of all places, the attic.

His beloved father’s journal.

Sigh. What a beautiful performance.

 

Featured image: my husband’s

fugitive (draft two)

photo challenge 12

The water stung her eyes.
Darn it, it must be the black and white. Probably too acidic.

This memory did look good on her wall, but she couldn’t remember why it was there.
She had dived in, of course, to find the details, but the pain in her eyes caught her off guard.
Being two dimensional, also caught her off guard. It shouldn’t have. But it did. She was new at this, after all.

New plan –
to back away from this old plan. To get back, at least, to three dimensions.
It would, surely, all come to her then,
when she caught the now…

+++

My chocolate levels have oscillated today, and with them, the way I feel about this piece. I took it down for a while, then rewrote it a little. So sorry to those of you who read it earlier. But this is definitely a work in progress…more like some doodling…and the character found herself laughing in the mirror a little as time went on…

 

Featured image: my own