They say you can never
know
Precisely what it is that you no

The car ran on and on and
on three wheels
Wasn't sure on how many
pills

I stared at the palm of my
hand
My future looked so **** ******

The confidence was all spent
Time I moved on and
went

I stood on the corner ,
warmer
Thinking about times , stoner

They say you can never
no
Now I just wouldn't
know

My husband wakes me up with a hot cup of masala tea,
To rev up my engines,
For the household chores ahead.
29/6/2024

~
she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.

I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.

a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.

before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.

now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.

no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.

but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.
~

You must leave ,
before the evenings twilight fades ,
before the nutrons and elements of the suns eternal rays, collapse and return to where they once came .
Before the housemartins perch on roof tops to tall to climb ,.
and yonder mill can't be seen or won!
And all that can be seen is seen,
and all that can be done is done .
Untill every blackbird that sings upon the village green ,
and every slug and worm ,
that Burroughs in-between ,
might feel the chill of the mornings dew ,
and the warmth of the rising sun anew .
Then go before the snakes coiled spring
moves swiftly to its prey ,
hastening it's sirens to every whim
that wells up throughout the day .
For the adder and the cobra strike with vile intent ,
and sin when it's coil is sprung brings a poison that dulls the soul
if left without being pruned or sheered .
For bile left when fully grown,
brings only death and foolish jeers .
For the grave has no use for pansies and fox gloves ,
no need for romantic thoughts of love .
Just a stone to remember who has been,
and a cross to bear in redeeming love .

Head can now explode
But my hair rises black
Higher than this
Feeling inside like
I am,
         Screaming
         the sound could send waves
In new directions.  
Capture or let go...
They both make me feel
          Insane
Unable to do anything else
The roar is paralyzing me
Get me into the black hole
       already
I need the other side
Rage-Light, flashing
      You would be blind by now
But I see too much
       Scratching out your eyes.

the wind is a song
that bends those velvet petals
for the lips of bees

I think you were sent to me by an angel
To teach me a lesson about my value
You illuminated paths I couldn't see within
Who knew you'd lead me to where I've never been

When you first disappeared,
Fear gripped me tight.
I was left broken
Without a star in the night

When you returned, my hope was reignited
but my fears would cause a lot of damage.
Now you're here, but not quite near,
Your silence echoing, forcing me to steer

Giving me the time and space
to really hear everything you once said
to let myself listen and internalize it
how valuable I am

People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.

Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.

The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.

The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.

The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.

Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.

Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.

Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo