The branches of my experience,
do not match the branches of your experience.
We are different trees.
The same seeds and the same species
and similar trunks
we all lived in similar places for eight months
But look at our branches all dissimilar,
Easier to see when it's winter where each one is,
  leaves have all gone .

Wind blowing and frosty weather skew the branches
as the cloud covers the sun offering no direction where to go
never returning to where they were,
sometimes breaking becoming sticks
food for insects and playthings for dogs
maybe becoming other branches,

this branch of thought written
on paper that used to be trees
an infinitude of differences
and also similarities
The same when happiest
similar when hopeful
and different when scared.

Nothing is still something,
darkness is still a reason to walk into furniture,
or walk up an imaginary step
when guessing how many are left to climb
the staircase,
there was nothing there
but it still felt nice stepping through the air,
or is that just me?
I seem to have gone off on a tangent somewhere,
But what do you expect?
I am a tree.

the feathers went up in the breeze,
between the tree's skeletal structure,
as though poured from a jug,
the tree laying on it's side
like it had conditioner in it's hair

and stayed there until the the feathers had fully passed by,
although a few got stuck in it's ear.

Treacle is dripping from the ceiling,
but it's not dripping it's hanging in sticky tentacles
like sweet stalagmites not letting go of either the floor
or the ceiling
making my hands stick together
and then my arms to my jumper feels really tacky
and covers my hair and drips down my face tickling it
sticking my eyebrows so when I open them wide
they don't feel like they ought to feel
I go to stretch them out with my hands
but that makes them more sticky and stalagmites
form between my eyelashes as I try to open them
and the treacle touches my eyeballs.

The feathers brushed against
the desert's floor,
scooping up small amounts of sand
with each pass
and depositing the grains through
their fingers whilst they stroked the wind,
as it carried them
across the desert floor.

wet young pine cones
and how did they melt in to that resin
that smelt so piney
and stuck to my hands
I could smell it for days on them
It stuck with dirt but still smelt of pine cone resin
My fingers slightly stuck to everything they touched
It was annoying
It wouldn't stop being sticky

I take a handful of sand and feathers
and eye's closed
drop them slowly on my head like a gentle sand timer,
and detect each touch of the sand
and cascade of feathers down my face
and then wake up in a pool of treacle
and the feathers all stick to me
as I try and wrestle my way out
they keep sticking to my body
until I can fly away.

A skeleton made from rusty locks
assembling himself
from out of a wet cardboard box
making his left shoulder too high
his knees metallic grind as
he walks to find his key
that copies itself with each
second taking on imperfections,
changing into infinity

And your vegetables they are good for you
a plate of ash
ascends from the pile
falling seagulls
into the cliffs
smash their faces
smudging their
teeth and lipstick
against the rocks
Sqwark.

closely by the fire
eyes dry
vacant stare
shallow
glazed
dried by the fire
shallow framework
crispy marbles
carbon is dry
dust
that grabs
and closer,
closer,
palm
hot
on my face
warmer than
my face feels,
even,
even
closer,
dry flames
like my eyeballs
crush like baubles
crunch
santa is coming
shhhh....
smells like rainwater on tarmac
chargrilled oily wetness
disgusting
numb fingers
from falling and
slapping my fingers
against it
(

tap tap tap the feeling has come back again)
time for dinner.