A porcelain doll
Shatters when she hits the floor
Only shards are left
So she mends herself again,
Again, again, and again.

I'm going places
And nowhere good
Leaving the neighbourhood
Of blurry faces

I'm going places
Misunderstood
I would stay, if I could
I'm changing bases

A lonely path
Accompanied by me and myself
Let out a laugh
The past, they think know hell

I'm losing grasp
Spiralling straight into wonderland
Why didn't they hold my hand?

Topsy turvy
My perspectives change
I hurt me
Fuelled by the pain

Lurching, wandering,
Perching, pondering
On a cold, wet, porcelain throne

Mixing, blending
Fixing, mending
Aimless, I push on, all alone.

my mother once had a porcelain teapot
gilded with flowers and leaves,
on my 12th birthday, i dropped it to the ground,
and it shattered as it hit the floor

some days i feel like that teapot
glued back together but still missing some pieces
weaker than i began
but stronger than i ever will be again.

a tea bag steeping
diffusing in porcelain
drink and be happy

Skin like porcelain
Ivory, milk and honey
Your kiss pacifies

The porcelain shell of his,
Hid his vulnerabilities
As he went on to only find
Cracks that expose him
To the storms that
Rage over the cracks.
While the devil plays
His trill with glee.

dancing on a moonless night
the air is cold
stars the only light
a lacy white dress
flowing with her movement
is she porcelain
or is she human
a music box plays
while she slowly spins
her limbs held together
with staples and pins
sweet tinklings and chimes
while she closes her eyes
trapped in a hell
a soft gentle demise
winding down
the music slows
to staccato notes
there is no flow
just jerky beats
eventually

silence

my hands reach for the key

i'm falling porcelain:
okay for now.

Do you see, grasp in the nowhere and nowhen
the whole picture?
Register the tedious highs, lows, widths and breadths
before your private, iridologic rainbows?
Like grasping the rims of “allness” on the path of a forest,
letting yourself grow a vertigo, fragile and docile.
Every, every time you meet up with a person,
do you encompass in your grasp, mind’s eye, all they are, all they are,
at that one very time?
My vision dims out into dependence, when glasses leave, when the forest my attendance seeks
in utter loneliness without my harmony with it weaved.
I no longer have in survival advantage
but it feels more than right to fall, give over,
I give myself fragile, more just, and fit.
In that vulnerability I can see more than
a healthy eye can: Van Gogh’s work on my trees’ leaves.
That is what all presences, forms and life’s skies are for:
fragileness, undoneness, nothingness, reasonlessness