bin the translation, relation, retaliation cycle
One mile down, two squares up. A bit of red and a line of blue. Between three corners, behind a day or two. That is about what I was trying to say. Nod along now please, nod along. I might land as I please or as you please, if you must. Just to hand out or over. Take a hand now, or not. It will go along just fine. About that one mile, it comes in long hauls and short ones. Or super sized miles for the lost. And those squares are great even circular or spiked. They come in any sort or form as I am sure you must know. Since squares are produced everywhere, in the south, east, west, south-south-west or even from bits of red. A smile would fit it fine, and you may. And I must. And do tell, yes I shall and I must as we may. I will nod along here. Clear. Now do tell.
take my coffee but lay off my thought
A breath of brown gold. Then there was a cup. Following the hand that carried it. It got you that far. Was that merely mind traveling? From the cup it was on to glass. Waiting for a fill, all I ever saw was air. I felt the light break. Held the cold steel of the minute. Broke pieces of moments as they poured down. Under my hand something grew. Alien to time. Unfamiliar with tasting. I saved none but the wine. Popped it, topped it, poured what stopped it. Was that just me rambling? Small as it was that little bugger popped ’round. On the crest of eggplant waves it clawed at the hour but it held only flesh. Downing the chase. Past cup, glass and flesh I saw roads and a driver. All the oceans of coffee, all lives rivers of wine and a limp crowd for sailors will not fuel your tank. As it blows your ride to pieces was that but a mind unraveling?
stuck between a situation and a bad place. Timing, life’s aphrodisiac
Not quite neatly trimmed hedges and far from wild flower fiction. Walls are humid. Days are shaded. The air is constantly calling out. Banging on the senses. Chanting at the chance, tires on the tarmac. Nerves screaming in answer to the occasional engine. The high pitched roar of a paupers ride the choking bass of a load carrier. Rain is easily apparent. At times the wind cannot live without attention. And almost always another life seeps through. The screaming, the chatting, the calls and semi sentences tend to wrap themselves up and dissolve. Not so when they need walls rather then windows as a way in. Subhuman shouts and non-issue wordings. Looting days on end. Running when walking. Flying when sailing. Speeding from a deckchair. Always above the wind. The weather on a leash. The earth in a pocket watch. When is it not past eleven.
too many roads and a multi-track mind. Not good
It was as clear as a lump of ice at the start of the project. My mind sharp as freshly cut blades. But as the sun rose over the concept the clarity started to melt. As new products were drawn and shapes were solidified cracks painted images in the formerly clear ice. Thickening white lines went from cobweb to sphere. Until the ice lump became the project. It numbed my blades but was molded to perfection. A little past the height of day with clouds clothing my vision, as winds blew by. Caught by a gust the lump was swirled around and hurled about. Little time before it rolled down drawing a watery image on the ground. As the stones pulled on its edges the image changed its lines into patterns. The ground lay cut in pieces as the sun went down. When sunlight rose over the project the floor was empty and my scattered vision had flown.
between psycho analysis and system paralysis
It would have made sense if I told you that it had seemed impossible. But sometimes life goes beyond the senses as it lays bare what was until then non-existent. As it crept up from the toes of our conversation. Spread itself through the veins of your movements into the flesh of your daily activities. My ears opened up to the humming of the weather in the air around you. Then a loud striking blew my eyes wide open. It came alive in my mind screaming loud. A child-emotion’s birth. As I watched the stale eyes of envy staring from your body. From behind the lids of your pace. From under the brows of your posture. While your words claw at any surface deemed solid. I see you scratch to mouth my tales and mimic my timing, while you tirelessly scold the ground that grew them. I have seen you multiplied. It would have made sense to stifle or strike you but some days I am too sane for my senses.
the space between want and necessity
The rains remnants on the window. A pale brick wall, fading. Shaded green. Grass between tenement blocks. Icy paper. The palm of my left hand. Rough warm wood. My right lower arm. A hand floating. Air above the table. Silence pours through the room. Cups of the eye. Brimful of wall, all space topping. The first day. The summer before. Weeks without musts or dare nots. Its meaning flows from situation to emotion as it turns into a physical phenomenon. The tips of my fingers tickling dust. No reason, no because.