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Timbuctu Mar 23
well now what do we write
After making places made to pout, allowed,

allowed
and pushing head against this only tiny worried forehead
only tiny creased
forming shapes of hearts by the curves of our lined fingertips
where i can tell
that you are made of turns of football fields
or strings of rounded yellow lights turned to
sticking; licked-off sugar peas,
Or with these shapes of coloured blocks of wood
Where You want to make a castle
before you turn 26-
-

(or you thought you were twenty,love,but couldn't even count that high -- )
And rivers pushing tufts of grass nearby,
To vague lines of horizon
covering out up on your little-boy mind
like the magic of worms who: - grow! back together
listing spells of crows croaking biting
beneath dark and spangling telephone wire.
How can i know that

how can i kiss you directly
against the
slightly dented texture of your
wide and warming heart?
Timbuctu Feb 2
SY
See You

By the time i told you I had given it to you already

In the form of tiny stars making patterns
Of spots
on the backs, the front;
the thicks of your thighs

You mustnt have had to move your fingers
In the shape of slight swiping
In the space leaning sideways  between

, but of course you would and
/of course the leaning makes the space;
moves it
into the balance of a window
With streetlights and rain

and the front of u against the back
of mine/
Promises that leave a gap
like the
Clinical white of bathroom cabinets.

God, to accidentally
trip-up
Against the symbols he gave us
as he was mumbling spinach in the roots of his teeth

& to test the trips of washing
machines, how our shoulders would
bounce
against metal
and a trembling view of the sneaking outside

that would waver,
that would send these Moments the smell of tulips
And damp and
marijuana, & short stone walls,
& the cold of my fingers
when i trade my hand for yours:

And i would look back at you with shears of thunder
-- would whisp the underneath
Of the small of my back
Into sharp grey clouds
(speaking sunlight)
On a background of secret & glowing white roses.

(we'd have each painted them red
You know
Had it not been for these small interruptions
we made

in time, and space)
Timbuctu Feb 2
i hide from you because you're prettiest in starlight
so i starve the day away in running from what might
have been made had i not leaned so far on the fur-bristled
fancy that i'd always see you best by being sat tilted back
on the triangles singing glitter webbed in crossword shadows

in midsummer hedges which line like silver-pillow piping the highlighter patches in a softly throbbing england leveraging
under utter comfort the lambulbs dickens left hidden in a ticking golden glow, laughing

but you don't see me, too easily i slip into some silky something that screens my skin in black obscurity, so i run halfway across the world and line ivy leaves instead  with a shuddering golden lining, coughing blue-brick city smoke with the glow from weeping bathroom windows; framed in smooth plastic beams set

and maladjusted, we love them for the solitary light they send into crowded streets breathing breaks of summertime glass
tripping mirrors like disco ***** from their lips, shaped against their face exactly how they is, how they would be, had we forgot
they got a look that hits from the street striking love like naked

dew in glass bubbles resting still and cold by consistent and indented belly buttons who heave and hollow in blind hesitation beneath a wobbling shower curtain from which she steps
in making theatre, aware of how her hips move thorough
but just as if, had she been certain of someone watching

she'd never have the force to break dimensions
in that way -- I would have been a wardrobe, varnished and clunking degrees of spirals ornate, collecting the ticks of English countryside clockwork within me, filling the grooves that miss
with tufts of old carpets patterned with humdrum hope

that one day they would fly; or, an added bit of mechanics
fattening up the edges inclining on the cold of space
which shimmers along in what was serious and sharp, coating the inside of such golden lock; left open - we're shocked, wardrobes
in old houses were meant to be secret, but honest - you just gotta

try it (like when at five we fingered a skeleton leaf, and realised
the world is whatever we might say it is,) and all of winter's there
inside; hidden; bright, the taste of dawn before it comes, its skin pink and blue and shakes fresh and frosted landscape on barely risen peaks, points misted and freckled and running in time

to make a song into history that beats like heels on concrete or
the mark of birds pinning themselves against an autumn glaze-glassed sky - I'll trust you find the key and the snow'll be pressed clean just enough for you to leave your footprints in it, that, or i'll turn it into the felt of the inside of the jewellery boxes

that huddle in the back of me beneath shoulder pads and jigsaw puzzles and lace eaten ruffles and all the other reality; the ends
of trouser bottoms, and an irrepressibly dead silver moth - that ladybird who had peed on my hand who how dare she be so magic and have excrement just like me? - so I copy her spots

and pull a dress from the hanger just like the tablecloth smelling faintly of cat dust and sunlight and your mother into whose polka dot holes you'd imagine dropping, and, disappearing, and then,
waiting, for someone who can tell that this piece of glitter in your eye is just a sign for how your heart breaks every time you see

a drop of rain shaped like a diamond, because, you know
there's a dragon inside - and darling, I know, you just want to fly
Timbuctu Nov 2020
well now what do we write
After making places made to pout, allowed,

allowed
and pushing head against this only tiny worried forehead
only tiny creased
forming shapes of hearts by the curves of our lined fingertips
where i can tell
that you are made of turns of football fields
or strings of rounded yellow lights turned to
sticking; licked-off sugar peas,
Or with these shapes of coloured blocks of wood
Where You want to make a castle
before you turn 26-
-

(or you thought you were twenty,love,but couldn't even count that high -- )
And rivers pushing tufts of grass nearby,
To vague lines of horizon
covering out up on your little-boy mind
like the magic of worms who: - grow! back together
listing spells of crows croaking biting
beneath dark and spangling telephone wire.
How can i know that

how can i kiss you directly
against the
slightly dented texture of your
wide and warming heart?
Timbuctu Sep 2020
It starts with you
(we dont begin with a lie,
at least)

passing a bulb stolen straight
from the middle of a
  
  twilight
       streetlight
(kids play football on a neon green carpet)
  
lily-lilting fingers slightly bent
cat-pads bristle and extend towards
to be attached
to be attached
to be attached
  to my face
I crawl at them, quick
     they play my skin

like paint that beats in drops of rain
From the spring of our shafted fountain-head

(lily pads surrounding, and the paving stones I invite you to, laughing to see your eyebrow crook
at all the sun around you)

and in the time it takes to think of a response
i've stapled a swing to the moon
just to
watch, how you watch me and
   be proud of
        how I
manipulate, the beaming

casting shapes from my shadows in rose and opals,
and ***, snakes and ballroom
    dances
on the rolling globe beneath us;

(We hover over, our heads together,
Now
Protecting)

a millenia ago I deep myself in pavement mild
the buildings that keep secrets
of the vistas in rambled office parks
of a light that turns metallic and bright

to remind us of when to come

when ivy runs the ruins of concert halls
and you and I still walk the steps we made before
sombre leaping silver to the sky
tinkling a trail
of harlequin puppets
      trembling
from our coat tail, sweeping :

with the promise that we will try.

So: another life, we sit on a sofa and smile drinking coffee a cold light outside and a bird on a naked tree, and it has been a year or maybe three, and still we are managing darling, we are doing it, we are still in love, and navigating every moment as if we always will be in and out of everything.
Timbuctu Aug 2020
i had followed you so far
that we began to find groups
of words like
clusters of trees; growing bright
and full of
upturned lights
with the spaces in between as well
that get into branches, blank,
cutting out peices from
children's white;

(before they felt the time,
    worrying
about being right)

here, our footprints secrete
star-spangled leaves on purple night
pavement

and reflect in increasing spirals
the distant lights
of office building Windows who
speak their sterile, asking insides in
slight proud, and slight
welcoming
peices of : life :

what life really is

people on phones and skirts and and scratching foreheads, and scratching paper, and offering jokes like slightly drowning lotus flowers, and flirting; and when Christmas smells like paper clips;
all the things we would feel on the sides
of our bodies like slow sliding warmth
dipping orange,
as we walked around outside of them

making some new paths, taking, the light
they gave and creating, we think,
some sparkling land in insurrection;;

but got confused as to who
was following who eventually; when
the helter skelter goes down forever
we lost the top
spinning
and
with enough stepping back over footprints
in the snow: to hide the way we go
 
remember it snowed that one day when we lied together; and we were so in love i hardly had to look out the window; paris could have been covered in tiny breaking pools of reflecting light, and it wouldn't have mattered; because your arm had its weight
embedded on mine
but:
leaves get crumbled if you, stamp on them enough
[we shouted at humpty dumpty right before he tipped his
fall { because
some thing inside us still believed in beauty }:
that testing breakability, has a tendency to
**** things
up]
 
but we were too late, his mouth in an O of surprise as gravity
did it's thing
[it always does no matter how many times you
dreamt that
we could
fly]
; & so too eating up
the breadcrumbs that turned out;
in the end;
were of limited resource
 
and the spaces emerging magic from clusters of tree/words
were sunk again into the coded nets they
'd been in the beginning
[precisely; with intent, my dear with as little
expense towards ambiguity as they can
possibly
measure]
 
this memory necessary in all these humans
picked like pods screaming that it's
against their nature
 
intrinsic to the half forgotten instincts
cultivated and esteemed and afforded and
carried through
and blamed and stimied
consistently :
 
that one must never be crazy enough
to believe that one's art would
ever really
be reality
Timbuctu Aug 2020
i'm running out of the time that was a moment ago interminable, endless, again
i saw you sitting in a white tiled gray-scale waiting dock in
the corner of the middle of where all the mustard-coloured
bus lines-line up
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