it was you - turning me the corners - strides like woman, cries like the girl-child - my beer dictates the barren-land - two strangers turning the corners, and it's raining around them - the breath between them rising like a lusty turn of the seasons
i know someone pushed the button
the bad-land violence gangs circle
me suit and tied up as i tried to walk down the streets
ignoring your wives and daughters
it was you, running in the garden at the precise moment it melted into perfection and poured into potential - your feet dirty, damp, and i could imagine cold - the sight of you running away and the sound of your laughter breaking the distance in front of you - your hair soaked like a ruined woolen jumper my mother made me wear to the funeral - taste the wind to be like me - it blew and gushed the garden while we slept - water makes it green
waking up to the rain-rage
with a hurried knock to the door
hair like a blood stabbed woolen jumper
the edge tipped and trembled
beyond the mental terror
unfolding before our eyes
food was served, and the cars made the water sound - we wanted to play, and didn't understand or care the dirt - she kissed your cheek, and the jealousy warmed me - i sat alone for the rest of the day, not sure of what to do with this new feeling - jealousy and lust, making love quietly so the children don't hear - i stood in the doorway waiting, wasting my time, the dwelling of my sister – down the hallway bleeding, she smiled at me in a way that said goodbye, and in a way that only a woman and child could understand
the spirits hoarded
the gods of yesterday lay rotting
and the gods of tomorrow removed their disguises
finding new liberties
in a worn out love of life
no man is warmth and cannot make soup for winters - the dim lights hit the walls of smiling seventies and moustaches and amber shaded baby-faces - i never knew hair could grow so long, or smell so nice beyond ice creams - how much help does her hair require as mine floats and bends in the wind and the sleep of a boy with a football
they painted and danced with the child-brides
the sky melted backwards
as time sped up
taking life and death with it
through a warm gel of purple loving purple
blue being green
and yellow in-between
the sunsets and it's time for mother and soup - the streets are dark, and the ball is cold and wet as the drizzle comes again just in time for a sprint home - news stories that cannot be understood yet and they all talk about them - my dirt and blood has to be taken care of, but first some dry clothes and some food, and my apologies for a lust for the life and an excitement of the child night on the clothesline where i shall hang
snail trails and bedtimes that are enforced by heavy clean blankets that seemed to be in endless supply with the wintertime outside – eerie wide eyed stuffed toys watch us sleep, and cartooned stickers from a childhood before us blur as our heavy eye-lids command our potent and most important dreams that drift within us, before we learn the burden of control
the planets moved and spun naturally
like the thoughts of our brothers and sisters
stars exploded with a distant hollow pop
and a lightshow of colours and mists and winds
that explain our lives
in a way only death can
and in the eternal silence, our drifting souls begin to play with each other, like cosmic-instruments – speechless, an intermingle of intergalactic spaghetti creating music only the soul can feel and experience – this lasts forever, beyond a time when everything is forgotten, and this beautiful life we’ve created ourselves doesn’t fade, but enlightens
the spirits hoarded
the gods of yesterday lay rotting
and the gods of tomorrow removed their disguises
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