The last line
Came out quietly
With no one around
Contemplating it’s virtues
And meaningless sounds.
he dogfights through snowy patches
for the chill chance
to sock his ropy limbs
in the overwintering currents
every expression has an appropriate scarf
had we forgotten our gloves
retaining cryptic coloration
fingertips hardened and blue
when the wet of the air reduced
suspending ice crystals
he grabbed my hair in his hands
and crushed the hues silent
Songful moon to jar the misstated, a craft of ruinous themes, only. Whitewashed embrace, confined against an edict of paperless pages. Fuse the shattered frown and the brightest field that you flower, satellite to suspension, precarious motility, this mortality. I pass away on the other side of an asterisk, emphasizing a field of hymns, or hims, ensanguined of all suggestion.
An olden ‘o’ wrench of mouth on the syllables where heard your name. We can die, said the dice to the palm. Our arms held open, embracing email accounts, those brackets, brackish. We augment argument with one chant, the unworthy stream of online stereos, tuning us further into the clouds. So my nightmare, inside my mouth, its plastic patter partner, lighting a candle, in the realm of no more.
The autogenous of my marbles
seems an exoteric arrangement
of some bon mot, a glassy minefield
from some ocular spinet
with a dyad of small she-she’s
blocking passage to the espresso machine.
There’s something conspicuously worth noticing
in this stretch, don’t ask me how or what for,
it’s just what a diviner may have said
about my future, when stirring up
the cosmos in a cup of Earl Grey.
Publishing sentience sentences
and nibbling on pink frosting.
Oh, I made sense of what he said
unquestionably, about three years later.
Which, in itself, sounds a bit Alice
what, with the talking rabbit and all.
I see an allegory filled with gumballs
just before the syntax is blown,
slightly distended and saliva spattered
or intact and boastful, through the glass.
Collecting money from eager children
grubby fingered and tongue twitching.
Should someone tell me how to blow bubbles,
I’ll tell them, to go fuck themselves.
This used to be easier. Maybe the state of drunk I was in lent to a greater language bank than this sleep deprived, self-awarded matriarchy. Could be a new phase, from once high-tech girl to socialite party-going journalist to physical trainer to yogini to fashion student to post secondary educational grants person to mom ~ the only constant in my sway was the way of the pen-cough-keyboard. And now, I find making the time to craft poems, or the style I’ve become known for, is a chore. Should I ditch this blog? Every time I consider it I get a new subscriber, how’s that for a universal sign……. Blogging has become strange, I’m totally unsure about turning this back into a personal soapbox to stand and proclaim…what? To the eyes of whom? For the ingestion of null purpose?
I discard the rags and repeat it, finger the twinkly things and repeat it, wonder about the drape of it and repeat it, imagine myself wearing it and repeat it, slide on silks and repeat it, backward glance and repeat it, accessorize subconsciously and repeat it, ring the cashier and repeat it, materialize and repeat it.