The clouds, spreading themselves across the sky
As spontaneous brushstrokes upon the canvas
And the trees, having found reassurance from the evening light
Steady their bows
And reassure the creatures, who now -
String their melodies across the canvas,
Whose eternal patterns appear now -
Not so erratic,
But rather the careful brushwork of some grand design.
And now we wonder - a chapter of the change
"Could there be, after all, one first mover?"
(but without capitals of course).
Now these years of rational thought
Dissolve at the sounds of the soft dusk
And sights that are everything - or nothing at all-
Or the exact words of the Romantics
Whose verses skim across the sky like the clouds themselves-
Or infinite other things.
At this moment
The body, not resentful - but still static
Lets forth instead the mind to project its frame across the sky
And through the white waters - suspended.
Now we wonder "How could there be pain or hate below the clouds - " despite having just read the evening news.
And from the world absorbed, we let forth
An infinite stream of thoughts that unfurl
Across the darkening sky.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
I am a ball of plasticine
Shaped by the palms of the world
The cracks smoothed over by loving hands
Then prodded by many fingers
Beaten and moulded
Thrown against the truth
The self is an illusion
So traceable
I am a product of the world
Ever changing
Ever changed
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
A crowd
Standing
Caught between groud and sky
Time weaves around the steel stairs
And through the golden light
Melting into the colours of the runway
I turn from the static fumes
To see these streaks of shadow and afternoon light
Perhaps it shall be the moment we remember
As we fall from the sky with flames for hair
Or perhaps it shall never cease
I moved without motion
Rising into the light
And saw us standing on the stair
Small and temporary
And so I flew
On the wings of aluminium angels
Into the clouds
And saw
In the blazing light
A non-existent city on the horizon
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
It is time
To wash out the sickness
From all robes and bedsheets
It comes
In ribbons of bright colours
Red for fresh blood
Purple for nausea
Pink for pain
And sky blue for vertigo
In patterns from a distant land
Where they grow fuit
Under the blistering sun
Figs and peaches
Soft flesh
And sweet cannibalism.
It is time
To slip into oblivion
Between the sheets
That are sticky anew.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
Along these windswept streets
With every gust,
Every step,
Every bone.
Fear of observation
Without contemplation.
Contemplation without creation.
And under the door,
The winter comes.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC