Thursday 28 February 2013

Springtime Scribbles

(free writing)

What colour would the moon be if you saw it on a Saturday?
Would its feeble light shine a skimmed milk hue with powder blue, dangling sneezes of moonshine, each handful of moon rocks and moon stones an aftermath of rags and bones
No astronaut could find or discover all the forgotten satellites that roam around the craters and through the gaps that the space buggies made through the cheese fields and the absent gardens
Your mother said you should have found somewhere cheaper to go on your Valentine’s Weekend you stared her right in the face
huge doe-eyed resentment and without blinking you spat on the floor
let it dribble nonchalantly down your chin and oh how your mother screams how it does pierce through the tiles
she says she says what to do with a maniac like you and she leaves and you lick your chin dry
All your friends ask you what was it like
truth be told you can’t remember you slept during most of your trip so you gathered bits of information and fused and moulded them together with a blowtorch, even, and constructed a collage of memories which you remember forever
And now its a Sunday you sit solitarily and sanitized all prim on a patchwork your bum fidgeting and wriggling where is the cat? has she gone to feed?
So you light a gas lamp and turn the TV on to sound only and you pour yourself a drink and you siiiiiigh
were you rich? you can’t remember
The room looks as if it was reserved for you all your favourite snow fur colours and pictures of you and that ghastly woman (a kidnapper you suspect) who seethes and represents all those tensions you embody in yourself and how did you survive in a bland baby bottle
You forget so you sigh and find solace in silence


Oh Time

Oh time- where do you seep?
Where do you drip-moments sleep?
I know you are there but
It’s hard to see your face
When days slip by- so sneaky and quiet

Oh time- you are so flimsy
A butterfly wing caught in the breeze
I stand mid in the garden
As you flutter by my eyelashes
Just for a second
And then
You’re gone

Weeks are put in an hour glass
And I stand in the middle
Of the sand storm avalanche-
Why won’t you slow down?
I am at the pinnacle and yet so far from it already

Here, I sit, I write
The sun shines this chill morning
It could be a double of any day
And I wouldn’t even notice
It’s just how things are, I hear you whisper
Even then,
Ears seem too coarse for such silver-silk words

When I wake up early-
(because that’s what you do to me, time, I’m addicted)
I feel ready for the day
But as it unfolds it’s satin folds
And I slide down it, so slippery and light,
I become less hopeful-
I miss the morning and it’s novelty

Oh time!
I can’t keep up
Slow down or disappear
Slow down



Silk quilts spill on to powder puff armchairs
Resting upon them, 
River flows of ash gilded in mould
And resting bodies too, red-ripe
Blood spat sheets
And soot black eyes
Overflows of wine and whiskey puddles
Vapour smell 
Incensed-ual intent
All the twisted inches and dead cells of yesterday
Hang from the ceiling
Chandeliers- yet no regret
Emanating vibrating and bloated with sleep
Paintings peer on
With vastness agape
Eros’s child no longer awake
She snores-
Over the credit cards and rizlas
To the fireplace and up and out
Until air is now deadened
With the stubborn hours
Morning snarls like a bulldog
Let off the chain
Comes charging through the slits
Through and through
The plum shade night