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janettePoems
It is nothing, a mordant of the soul, an elixir, a panacea, a placebo for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths, such little things, on the verge, lilting as the decorum begins to bobble and slump sideways, and murmur, on Mondays I can swallow the octave of your absence, tendrils and all, red quince limbs parting from the deluge and in its wake, the wreckage of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging pendulum at our door, the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest, thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me, tangled and heavy the years upon my bones begin to spur and flower into cunning disruptions, and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper, vellum for another wish in the complacent burial of mango flesh, listen, as my song liquefies, drowns you, inundates each alveoli, and our love in the swallowing gush, perched, begins to shudder, devoured by its symmetry, stem cells all akimbo in the shallow pitch of days bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice it is nothing, really, a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
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Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
The Biography of a Wish:
It is nothing, a mordant of the soul, an elixir, a panacea, a placebo for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths, such little things, on the verge, lilting as the decorum begins to bobble and slump sideways, and murmur, on Mondays I can swallow the octave of your absence, tendrils and all, red quince limbs parting from the deluge and in its wake, the wreckage of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging pendulum at our door, the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest, thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me, tangled and heavy the years upon my bones begin to spur and flower into cunning disruptions, and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper, vellum for another wish in the complacent burial of mango flesh, listen, as my song liquefies, drowns you, inundates each alveoli, and our love in the swallowing gush, perched, begins to shudder, devoured by its symmetry, stem cells all akimbo in the shallow pitch of days bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice it is nothing, really, a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
janette
Written by
janette
English
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
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