ebullient decay
toxic fumed bathing,
clarity blooms from dark, the
coloured light haunts my
imagination.
Memories developing:
my jukebox romance –
cigarette, beer in
one hand, the other rests on
sound waves lovingly
Sometimes, I just need Nirvana.
“if you ever need anything please don’t
hesitate to ask someone else first,
I’m too busy acting like I’m not naïve…”
Gold.
October
memories bare
reticulate stair
what do I wear?
October
symptoms rise
and symptoms fall
please
go on
Mar/re/ooh/na; verb; Let’s Dance
I went through the store trying to find a particular kind of eraser I used to love. Oh foolish me. All good products seem to disappear.
Thank you, but maybe not this eraser that spreads my mistakes around, magically darkening the crystallized regret to embed the paper with bloodied molecules of ridicule.
And you know how I hate melodrama…
I went home instead and started cleaning out some closets. So straight forward in theory. But I found all kinds of pieces that opened up holes in me. And filled them perfectly.
And then I emptied the pockets of an old purse I no longer used.
And there they were.
Crayons.
I had forgotten I used to carry them with me everywhere. I mean, you never know when you might need them.
How silly. I thought I had needed erasers.
“In Yolngu culture dance plays a pivotal role. There’s ceremonial dance, celebratory dance and then there’s Marryuna; to dance with no shame, to freestyle for the sheer elation of dancing.”
Thank you for nominating me dear Ivor
(There are a couple of minutes of chatting at the beginning I have cut off, the song is only 3-4 mins long).
I thought I would nominate anyone who is taking the time to read and/or listen to my music challenge posts. I am interested in all of your choices. No pressure/obligation of course❤
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…
journalled scars
He tenderly reads,
these slicing s i g h s,
He stitches and breathes,
my anguished cries,
He bleeds and bleeds He,
soul’s Sabbath
e x h a l e
