Down the garden
sits a small water,
sunk with moss ink
floating its own
second skin like
a face left blotched.
Hands peel away
the tumour lips:
under dank flesh
splay young starlets,
gazing sirens lost
without their ceiling.
Their eyes are bright
in the gloom - plates
hunker foolish heads,
anchored by the stem
to murky pond-floor,
they cry up to a night
begging to be taken
into the jet reflection.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Down the garden
sits a small water,
sunk with moss ink
floating its own
second skin like
a face left blotched.
Hands peel away
the tumour lips:
under dank flesh
splay young starlets,
gazing sirens lost
without their ceiling.
Their eyes are bright
in the gloom - plates
hunker foolish heads,
anchored by the stem
to murky pond-floor,
they cry up to a night
begging to be taken
into the jet reflection.
Quick draft for the theme of 'green'.
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