Discussion about this post

User's avatar
Meisha's avatar

ill post something - poem - over the weekend :-)

Expand full comment
Meisha's avatar

Defamiliarising the nature of a dream;

how will you begin? roll golden phoenix-eggs in fine grainy sand

scratch

feel scratched

cut that sharply cuts the blackest road. white-solid-divider-line separating iron-clad directions of life

scratching the

feathered arc of magpie wing rolling through air, meaning; how do you begin?

butter morning warbles melting golden snow ribbons though breaded soul

Did you know magpies have over 900 syllables and a 4 octave register. Their dinner-time warble is brief and beautiful. Enchanting. Fine. Flutey. Floats away in twisting rising spirals.

To Begin; I notice our campfire is drawing in and wonder how that works within the shape of a day?

He told me a day was the ballerina’s arm arcing into the arms of her lover, her prince, as he arched her naked body into the swishing air between them.

It was actually a curse materialising many years later. It oozed out in time like puss from an ulcer that wouldn't be healed,

Like memories that loop away as unstable interconnecting arcs

Circulating, never right here, scratching. Write here;

Like rolling ball-shaped things up hills that feel like mountains and. Instead the piercing fragments littler, accumulating golden buttery lies (It’s enchanting).

To what end? The colour has changed. Smells like death-stop and the bullshit memories make fake dreams that present themselves as the rolling of self-deception upwards because there is success to be hard in that. I feel tired.

Connecting

Wings-of-

Double-helix-

Twisting-

Did you wish me dead?

Ever hex instead

Do you believe me?

And now?

Conceivably it was hear the warble first stained black, scratching deeply, iron wrapped over iron, tightly piercing rhythms, arm. The arc of the day changed. The murky brown ooze was delighted amusement from the sidelines. Old Jaffas arching looping in her direction. Her ballerina arm festering. Blisters oozing. It was an expanding sticky orange chocolate gooey fleshy buttery yellow mess. Shape and taste change. Don’t blame it on the Devil.

She lifted that black oozing arm and opened the black empty door before her. The door opened into emptiness.

Not everything is as it seems.

Don’t blame it on the Magician.

Don’t blame it on me.

The evening crickets will bring their tides.

Expand full comment
1 more comment...

No posts