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Timbuctu Aug 2020
I fell in love for the first time in Texas, one of the most dangerous places in the world. Minds are blank and solid; bodies are fat and languid.

Where the the skies make clouds make beasts with big walrus teeth, heavy and grey and jaws too big; and yellow grass that meets rainbows who undulate, and the pavement behind it (oh consistently pavement, raining pavement) and stained sometimes with new rain right after it got hot for the first time and the smell is like planting your knees in wet soil; when there is a breeze in the autumn that just lifts up the hair on your knees, in the sun, and wildflowers line each truckstop street; the very first streets where I made myself see a Mondrian tree.

I had a boyfriend in Texas.
I could lift the faces of people off their heads like fossils from sand, could turn them around and figure with my finger every fraction of them of their smile of their grimace, turn each one upside down. I began to wonder if a person could be too happy, too happy, if there was a limit and  remembered, maybe, a person could go crazy - and wondered, why not?

I could feel the points of a star meeting at the ends of my limbs; I could feel a depth like a lily pad, boeing my bottom. I placated no one  -- except him, of course, over and over.

I met david stalking through the aisles of a shop, one day when I was a shopgirl and had yellow hair in curls, and fleshy arms, and an *** like a pillow under a turquoise skirt. He wears shorts and looks like a dork, walks short and slightly hunched, and he doesn’t look in your eyes, and you could think it was from shyness --  until he does look, and they’re so bright, you could tilt into going blind. (He’s averse to the image of all the people toppling over around him.) He has golden hair on his arms and sturdy wrists built by elegant, competent lines, pointing its hands into indicating something of art, maybe, or deeper than that, or this.


    “Is for horses”

    He tells me, seriousness straightening his brow.
Timbuctu Jun 2020
i hide from you because you look prettiest in starlight
and i see you best from the

triangles who sit on the tips of
shadows in the
midsummer hedgerows
on the backside of england

but, you
didnt see me, so
i line ivy leaves with the glow
of squares of bathroom windows,

(we love them for light they
gave, inside
breathing breaks of
summertime glass; tripping mirrors
from their lips
shaped against their face
exactly how they is :

we Forget
they got a look that
from the street
striking naked, breaths of humidity :
(behind condensation she steps out
of a shower :
aware of how her hips move
thorough : making
theatre just in case
just as if she was certain
of someone's watching, she'd never have
the Force to break dimensions
in that way -- )


I might have been a wardrobe
sturdy, clunking
degrees of
spirals ornate;
collecting ticks from clockwork
each of the gears that
just - might miss
an - (added bit)
of mechanics fattening up
the edges inclining
on the
cold of space

the lock left open
we're shocked -

it looks so secret
but honest- -
you just gotta try it )

{i lie you know
we always did,
since we were five
and fingered a skeleton leaf,
and realised the world is
whatever one might say it is :

i lied of course
you've gotta find the key
one chance among
too many
too many that if you thought
of the possibility you'd go blind,
and for once, darling
you'd see everything}

but open
for you, for anyone,
to clamber into
all the way into
the inside of me

all of winter's
bright :

you forget the taste of dawn before it comes,
and her skin, the colour of clouds, pink
and blue and
shakes fresh and
frosted landscape
on barely risen peaks, points misted freckled and
running in time to
form all our history given -

(it's ancient and it's song just sounds like the mark
of birds pinning themselves against an autumn sky)

i'll keep it for you i'll find it or turn it into
the felt of the inside of the
jewelry boxes that live
huddled in
the back of me

beneath shoulder pads and
jigsaw puzzles and
lace eaten ruffles and
the ends of trouser-bottoms

and a silver moth and
one ladybird who (PEED on my hand)

;how dare it be so magic;
and // have excrement
just like me - ?

we place a notecard
of solid stubborn wonder
flipping memory
placed over
placed over

to keep all the time from
becoming disgusted] --

so i copy her spots and
pull a dress
from a hanger,
just especially
because i saw in a story book
that when you was a child your mum
had a tablecloth
smelling faintly of cat dust
and sunlight
and you imagined disappearing right into the black of its polka dot

and maybe i plant a hat (like a lampost)
that covers half your

(keep that side
for the special ones,
the ones who tell
piece of glitter
on your eye
can know
that your heart breaks every time
there's drop of diamond
shaped like rain
because, for you
there's a dragon inside

and darling --- we all know,
you just want to fly.

(we might crash into a mountain, it might hurt, we might fall all the way down; dont worry, there's snow at the bottom:

and if we ever need her, a woman who hides in
reflection of light from a pool like a mirror
a window

cast on the sides of caves
down in
the mountain; and

sometimes, for special reasons, she comes outside.)
Timbuctu May 2020
i want a promise of sunlight before i leave i
never wanted something so much as a picnic with any of you
and why is it the mussels i carry in the crook of my arm,
we keep in plastic bins with
rice and spice
not enough for you

the years we sat together
on a park bench eating:
watching the clouds flash against the sky
in colours of pigeons and the taste of
the way the
the other

and breathe against me please
write your newspaper and coffee
against the curls of my toes that stretch into
our bedsheets

how easy it would be in my mind with toast
and butter
and alarm clocks toning into morning light
and your arm never leaving the back of the hairs on my
tilting side

not so much leaning
you understood; but an intention towards
making shapes of what you'd
expect, in your head,
when it changed

just enough for the force
of you to taste
blossoms blooming the
corner of my lips:

that you'd never have found; had i stayed; straight on

who'd ever have thought, there was never a problem
except of that of admitting
how much one was so loved by the other?
Timbuctu Apr 2020
Only by knowing we had it right
from the start
could our hearts take the shape
of the shafts of golden light we made by
bouncing head-first
into the center of those sunflowers

i saw through flashing windows
on a train while the sky was breaking

On a hard summer’s day,
Where pick-up artists showed
their cards, grinning
knowing their art was never
so far from clowns; from  trapeze artists, swinging from
and there it is)- a whole circus tent, waving
acres of turning yellow

I’ve loved each one of you for all the same,
all different reasons
and it was not so diffcult,
in the end

the dust motes of your jeans
i rest my head against buying into
the smells of memories of collisions

And I stepped down an aisle with me
and you writing stories of our future
on the soles of my shoes:
the familar march, the dance i perfected
of jumping just ahead of what
might be said

Balancing ontop of my steaming train
The white of my dress leaning against
the swirling ***** grey
stealing its colours from the
neverending sky;
Trailing through the windswept hall

Time leaving pictures on the wall
Of silhouettes, our heads, profiles
moving slightly into smiling all
the images we stopped to forget,

simply again; it was only that i loved you more
Timbuctu Dec 2019
The gold from dark-autumn
lamp-lit leaves
dripped on your head and you beamed

because you could catch
between your thumb and
that finger that
points your pad at
spitfire wishes
falling bellow
hollow moon

and pinch between
and mould and lick
each form of each of
the words that we said

and the moon moved its fingers
through the back branches of my happy hair
and my nose blew a cold, rosy smile

because i could feel your knees were planted on mine:i could feel how your heels dug soft and deep and stubborn and mild in my ground underneath and that the differences of our skin made only the
point of a glistening
heaven &
Timbuctu Oct 2019
having to little typing words out
it's all you've got left now, dears

shifting letters down, in quick
  to spaces to  click in to,
to   adjust I
  think to  in this attempt,
i think  to

just, get out the pain
stretch in unblinking
sudden staring space with
barely gasping
pupils wholly

urging in such exercise of
linking spitting veins the
pain out  
      just on top, of my heart,
my ache, fat and proud,
elephant feet and rhinoceros teeth
out; and
into my left arm and out and into

what; some pitying object
some breath of smoke clinging at
dust motes in such a way
as to arch itself in slanted
upward eyebrows,

to circle around, cat like, the
tail-end of some
bitter story your mother once wrote,
, beer stenched on
sticking bars

more battered music tinkling
licked vinegar, in flicks of dry
tongue;  licking salt
on scars, in slanted lines,

And folded in her 70s coat
Smoking sadly, singing her
flying nun, camus, detective
collor, lackluss in grey pouting
in pale lips;
Wistful at her failing wish
we see falling from her skin,
in bright-edged ashes:

unfailing romantic if she could
only imagine it was
snow ; but

she lights the finish again,
as if there's somthing left
strikes the back of
a Juke box swishing neon against
the back of her ***

leaning, boogy, jumping kitsch
in which her temprement relents
against;; and the fact

That she never was always  never a teenager
And will never be again  
and could be so serious without ever meaning
nothing    so here, or laughing

I open up her future in
a window behind her back;
and paint a daughter's imagination
in the cracks of

a stucco frame,
and it wills itself into the tiniest bees
buzzing dialogue and *** and adventure and queens
dancing on shivering arcs
on gossamer leaves;

and with gossamer words come
spiderweb courage; and
the force to walk out from the
pub, and out and farther out, and

over bridges and hopscotching trolls,
and through the desert, clipping roses with
her nail;
and across sun drenched plains, and
we find her sun-skinned loves
into, fast-shut white blinds and
chipped moasaic flower pots;

in spanish air kicking dress in red and
fingered frills;
flashing up in dazzling mirror-move
of kicking glittering cement in
heels beating rythm in city streets

i give her all she never had, i stretch us out, through
country, loving, code, and time;

and still this ache, though where'd it go
my throat and the back of my chest

a stain, a corner of
the sticking dust of a 70s pub,
no honey, no bees, no flowerpots,
time travel, or poetry can clean.
Timbuctu Oct 2019
what to do with the ones
who, glanced at the right speed we
see them, shudder gladly into multiplicity
but cannot bear to stand in any

act of publicity;
  without the knowing gesture of
the solid hand of
  an other, after

being lifted from their own
lands of cloud

(we were gods there, we remember) ;
in shafts giving golden to
trendy canals worth nothing without

the sky playing lifting each bland echoe
of batting lashes,
nudging peach skin knees a gasp here

a crooked smile pasted
on a passing wall of the morning walk

in us,      there
licks of grey batting the sun with orifice
darkness and, and blinding whiteness
of the vast tilting gameboard
leaning into us, breaching when

we are, sudden, feet on the ground
dancing between shoes some good-money
a - peice
shining dark blue varnish and laces that could
be tied
just right; and trip on us, when we
don't agree with the rythm just right
(we were dancing slight along
hidden angles, checkered,
that even with suggestions, a
soft heel pressing your vulnerablity,
you, still, would never remember.)

and we look down to see
we wear marroon dark heels
just to reach a little high and
distinguish the length of the blue sky we  

this solid grown hand, of yours,
with an other magic in his fingers;
veins pulling, streaming, lifting, solidly;

and so we exert simple bullets knocked down
speech; in feigned purple light,
with soft lips, soft hips,
we, steep into a negation of the wood, you
offer, gliding the lacquer,
(we remember woods of bluebells, of myths
hovering their shapes in dust
laughing disappearing into a backgroud of ever-green)
and we take petite steps, and we petite feet,

and speak these -  we love you:
and you know,  it's true,    and you know

we won't forget the kingdom of clouds  ;
(we lifted your knickers, darling,
            and laughed
solumn songs of sublimity,  
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