the bomb is afraid, sir

Source: Fagning

Your heart is only glitter, gasping out of a plastic tube. It tinkles feebly amongst the snow that drips from darkness with proficiency, excellence developed from whimsy and thoughtless calculations and years. Years of… dying. Then it shatters into mice tails that scatter into their holes at the sigh of a tamed waking.

The dust nails have punctured mothholes with sharpened beak, scabs settled on atriums. A bomb lodged itself in your chest, don’t detonate it with a crying hand.

Scratch them off in the rain and bleed with the glory that pours until the concrete stoppers, corks and erases the iron, powdered into galactic sand.

Squeeze the beats out of your gait and ride the horse towards me. Carefully, so the time beats faintly, without cause to burst.

I’m waiting with a rifle, to lick away the misery, raspberry and forget that they’re atomic. Unseen, ungrazed, once untouchable but now mine, sir. Sir, you need some bandages, I’m sorry to say you may never walk again. Do things slowly, so the bomb may rest inside you. It too, is afraid of death and shrapnel in its eye, and a million pieces that will never touch again.


lava bride and the sunkissed night

Source: rosewong

Note the cold stinging each kiss, emanating forth from the capillaries paying tribute though her fingers.

Crystallizing in her hand, she cries out, pain engraved upon lips and tongue, etched hastily in her wrinkles where the lava has set in the cake pan.

Sometimes she glows, that feathery tone luminescent in dust light that breaches the threshold of rigor mortis, cast in the bluebird. That tore the jellyfish, squelching neath your ungloved hands, spinning narcotic veils, in shades of bluebottles, crashed up on the pebble shore.

Sometimes her skin scares you, its pearly radiance flickering in shades of a bruise healing from yester year.

Sometimes you imagine your wedding, her veil tossed against her wind-washed hair, seeping into the toxic conspiracy that lies between you in bed, upon the sunkissed night. The sleep that steals the sun and hides it to scorch through every shirt in your closet.

How will you tell her that all her ironing was a toss of time into oblivion? Pennies scattered into naked pockets that clutch at wallets on the pavement in ignorance?

kindling your peanut shell, faith

Sometimes you perch on dandelion breath, waiting for the neon glow: EXIT. The bus has come but the holes in your pockets stole your ticket and wallet. The pavement was only an accomplice.

Everything pulls away in the yellow and wheels, churning the hurricane that abandons only you, wrenching everything else. Slapped first by the wind then expired passes.

You curl up on the bench with nowhere to be but here, cracking peanut shells. The ants know it is raining, in the cracks, but they are too busy.

How sick are you? the emptiness has grown, this tumor that makes red concrete from your veins.

Sometimes someone has to kindle your light with their own faded matches, whipped to the bone. Drive you home. A whip of faith so your garbage gets carried away.

when you know the words are a drug

This a post inspired by MonkeyMoonMachine’s Freshly Pressed post about the writing process. This is a microscopical insight into part of my writing process. 🙂

When music and silence morph into a grey shadow, mingling into nonsensical, nonsensical rhymes.

When not quite all the light has poured into the sunset, the night nor dusk, just a silhouette of time.

When the mattress has lulled you into a semi-fatigued state, your eyes see only a dazed photocopy of the world and a quarter of the words.

Take these and stir with a sieve, filtering the glitter.

When reality and dreams are equal at election: in the light of the darkness there are strange things, new things, the wonderful.

Writers drag these from the imagination moors, paid in black eyes. It is backbreaking labour but the incoherent becomes the coherent under the candle at dawn. You have something like an eclectic cocktail, like a dormouse at tea.

Wear a raincoat to go for a stroll in the morn. It is strange and wonderful.

make your heart burst with chemical wanting

Where lies the pane in a window? The frame that holds it and the sill where resting briefly is the dust? The curtains that hide the night, or do they conceal the sins you’ve hung up in chandelier light?

From here you see without touch nor feel, the world without ache or hurt. This is the way it should be-without the pain in pane.

Still you’ve wet the floor. See this blood that drips of shards from your chest? You press yourself too hard against the invisible. Detonate yourself and crawl into beyond! Make your heart burst with its chemical wanting. 

When the frost settles and beams of hot breath cannot caress its worries away. When the dust swirls unflinchingly and closes in on the lace. 

Then is it no longer a window?

suicidal beetle, reincarnation

Does he brush away the sediment settled on your bones? And melt them in a cauldron to recast in the half-light under your lashes?

Born twice but living a hundred lives, shooting up from beneath the beetle’s corpse and find the blasted light from whence you came. Etched with the lines that paint you in bark and skin and the sap that bleeds like milk.

Until man comes to fell you with his horns blaring the dusk, scattering raccoons who dance in the shade that filters between the leaves.

Is the rain pumped through your arteries? The sun your flesh made putrid? The soil your shelter?

It is the crystals of knowledge you lick in the morn and the blueprint of the world unfolding. Seeing, breathing the mist, finally understanding why man is but a suicidal beetle under the mineral plains.

mortar, pestle, nano-bits of people

The chalk on the pavement is sucking away the lies that our neighbours gnashed into the concrete. The night’s fury had driven them outside, in blinking streetlight and dressing gowns mottled with a rage that had pastelised over years of bills lying under newspapers and becoming antique.

The suburban dogs crept into their kennels, left their barks on the lawn, where clocks had silenced them with lead pendulums, fallen into holes too shallow for the light.

The neighbours crushed themselves with mortar and pestle and the fog blew them into reams of powder, sparkling soullessly like ginger hair, nano-bits of people.

In the daylight, they have gone for a stroll, ephemeral lines, streaming down the roads, streaming into creamy, washed-out rain where the plastic sea meets the desert. Dogs push their noses into the concrete , licking the shards of porcelain that ran through their boiled, steamed blood. They were once teapots and china saucers. Once upon a night.