.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
.i feel change, the waythe birdsong changes when thecat goes out for lunch
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.i want to sink intothe earthand rise up againblooming
.you bring me flowersred linen petalsatop plastic teal-green stems,i don't think that we'refor real
.the birds flysouth andwarm theirwings,forget theirempty nests
.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.spring opened up hisarms to mebut winter stole my heart
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
.they greet me like old friends,ivory hands gripping myshoulders a little too tightto be forgivingi tell them that i'm sorry,and they know what i mean,their smiles fade and the blackholes on their faces start to furrowand i explain that it's notquite time, not yeti still haven't worked up the gutsto let them outbut they've heard this spiel before,and it's getting harder tosilence the rattling, a myriad ofskulls and ribs that i can no longerhide
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
autumnthe world isturning over anew leaf,and i with it
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.the reaper playssolitaire when he's gotsome time to killbut when your time'sup it's back to work, coshe's gotta make a livinglike the rest of us
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
LoveCaramel kisses drizzlefrom your lips, and Istill to a pulsebeat.
MythosThe Hunter Orion's prey— a sky of fleeing stars: dawn.Chiron Sagittarius: the archer's arrow, piercing eventide.
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
all insometimes you fill my headso (full) I canfeel you therethe progress of a constantthoughta dream made tangible
ResidueShe wilts in the wind,but laughter still sounds from aleftover shadow.
Space BlanketsPurple cloudsdraped over crescent hips--bashful twin moons.
Late OctoberOctober rain spills on top of fallen leaves; puddles of water over red, orange and yellow. Glassy pools of color raging in a last flourish of life. The drops are cool on the tongue and refreshing- sending a shiver down my spine as they drip down my neck.Autumn's rushing windLittle lakes of brilliant huesFields of thriving corn.
meanwhile, statesideheat in the darknessyour pulse in your fingertipsthoughts of distant skin
.a lover leaving hishome for another, a sparkthat becomes a flame