little bird


little bird with yellow beak

sits in empty frangipanni tree

perfect

it trips and hops

is happy

i am happy

to see this thing….the life,

and beautiful COLOUR

so inviting that my body wants to die and fall apart

to be the bird, the beak

and the tree.

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Fleeting

 

 

slipping

fingers

in-between

fingers,

slender-pink

rose light

sliding,

through a window

in my beating heart.

i skim the temporary

fragrance

that is you,

the ribbons

of connection

swallow

me

in a blanket of

love,

i savour

The Cave – Forbidden Love

 

 

I hate this

ene r g [Y],

trying to stay hidden

but NOT,

instead it flows with friction rough intensit[Y]

like a sucking thing……

oh the cave is so warm

but I am cold.

You pull into me, in some way

and my heart L E A P S  the space between us

like a little fool with striped stockings and a funny hat.

I am angry

but the material on my body melts away,

how close can we get?

What is down there

in the corner

of the cave,

deep in the back where the light can hardly reach?

I hate you for this

and I love you too

you are it seems

aglow

[worm]

 

Dry Water

 

 

Dry……

over nothing not something

………………..

blank look

dusty tongue,

paper dry

underfoot,

toes shy

away….    ….        …………

too dry.

Mind hiding

empty fear

parched

impressions,

left

here.

Falsely still,

chalky

friction.

A

void?

 

Something (forgotten) not nothing……

something

rushing,

filling,

flowing choking

not dust but,

wet

thick

deep

water

dirty,

water

clean

wet

growth

primordial damp

hiding

mossy bones,

and…………………,

teeth.

Wet  R U S H E S

silver baubles streaming……

ruthless blue,

clearly

waiting

relentlessly.

.

.

patiently. . . . . .

under  dry

water.

 

 

 

Morning Earth

 

Deep breath

clears the words so, like full cocoons they split and flutter off.

Morning earth makes small gestures

moist fragrant whispers dance persistently in my breast.

The sun holds it’s majesty between my eyes

and purple blossoms……hazy winter…..

What IS this morning saying to me?

What IS this dewy touch I feel

in my throat

…my heart

….on my tips…fingers and toes?

Like camphor perfume, dappled snakes and river water

green and open.

Garden music parts my heart and droplets of lightening glass smile

like freckles in the sand.

Sky God

 

 

Sky God gets dressed

behind a grey cloud,

little window of light.

Sky god peeks out whilst slipping on his yellow socks.

 

Sky God puts the kettle on,

I can hear the lid of the tea pot.

Green tea for him, it makes him yearn for the jungle.

 

Sky God yawns and scratches a wayward feather on his eagle head.

Am I happy?

He asks himself.

 

Sky God picks his nose

and drops it through the clouds.

A twinge of guilt ruffles his ribs as he realises they will

blame the birds.

 

Sky God sits down in his cane chair

with his fine china cup and watches his creation….

he hawks but thinks twice and swallows.

 

Sky God lights a cigarette….a small vice

and smiles as Chief Yellow Dog

interprets the patterns of smoke.

 

Sky God looks down at his toenails

and wonders lightly where he last

saw the clippers….?

They must be somewhere!

 

Sky God finishes his tea and gets up to start his daily chores

as he does this thousands of tiny flowers fall out

of his bum……

‘I must get that seen to’ he thinks,

A worried frown upon his beaky face.

‘Oh yes….’ as he dials his doctors number, ‘better to be safe than sorry.’

 

 

Stealing People?

 

To ‘steal another woman’s man’…

The phrase is old and unreliable

it reeks of guilty blame

and shying away from responsibility.

 

Stealing; a concept seen cleanly when

speaking of chocolate and cheap jewellry.

Woman; a word associated with shame.

 

The guilty party is not the stolen nor the thief

but the water upon which the woman states her

ownership,

the mobile depths

the lack of firmament.

 

Stealing a man indeed

whoever heard such rubbish.

 

But what speaks here?

 

The use of abstract to deny the fact; the reality of pain in this world of grey matter.

Does it?

 

Matter I mean, really… DOES it?

Do we kill the abstract also, with our guilt.

Our need to claim, to drive our stake through someone elses heart?

 

It’s not as though I picked him up and put him in my pocket,

then scurried home to get him out

and thrill at my bold action with delight.

 

Or do we make real the theft

by doing just that in our lonely mind?

 

Is the purety of experience lost

in the hackles of a jealous thought?

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