my hands are pungent
cupping my face
I inhale
golden ochre fills me
my heart
a newly forming bowl on the wheel
moistened now by the rich echo of a smell I can taste
forming still…
I lick my hand and drive my time machine
back to 1978
a hot summer with brittle trees against a friendly blue sky
a far lighter blue than that of the bike I couldn’t ride
the water is almost gone and toads langor there
toxic and lumpy and lazy with peace
but OH they make us squeal
why do my hands feed to me that day now?
all clean and grown
I do langor like a toad though
breathing through nostrils that flare over thick lips of clay
memories move under my nails
like watercolour
reminding me of my birthday watch
lost
and the way Harriet snapped at the black mongrel
who DARED poke his nose beneath her tail….
maybe that’s when I dropped my watch
in the mud
by the dam
under grass
taller than me
Loved the story within the verse and companion artwork.
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I get so excited when I see a post from you. And you just never disappoint. I feel buzzed, like I just inhaled some whiskey, the sweetest, most longest shot I’ve had in ages.
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I’ve never been compared to whiskey before…sweet long
golden honey whiskey đŸ˜‰
kundalini whiskey words…. x
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