landscape edging plant
that are heat and drought hardy
fragrant alyssum

I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals,
an Alyssum White blanket of snow,
piebalded by Slipper Orchids,
flows beneath my skin
as if it were the thinnest layer of water
under oil.

The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian,
the active ingredient the smell
of well-matured cheese,
cuts the tops off  mountains
as it fills the bottoms of canyons
with asphalt.

It's given a brain back to this anencephaly.
Where there were stitched lips,
now only paper-heart kisses.

The rarest bloom is my woman
The most beautiful petal coming from behind the leaves
Unblemished
Permeating the air with her scent
Stronger than any of the world’s top ten
Pleasant smelling flowers of;
Rose,
Jasmine,
Lily of the Valley,
Gardenia,
Chocolate Cosmos,
Four O’clock,
Sweet Pea,
Sweet Alyssum,
Frangipani, and
Wisteria

She is my rarest bloom
Planted only on the garden bed of true love
A possession so thankful I have.

I can taste the colours of your kiss
Fiery crimsons bursting through
Mellow yellows
Exploding into sweet tangelo
Cool blues
Turning violet
As my senses play this quiet duet

I hear music when you touch me
Bass lines throbbing alongside
Exotic rhythms
Tumbling into trembling strings
Soaring voices
Dulcet tones
Within your music my body groans

I can smell flowers in your words
Tender Honeysuckle pervades
Alluring Rose
Sweet Alyssum quickly follows
Heady Jasmine
Lascivious Lilies
Impressions that set my spirit free

You muddle my mind with euphoria
Sensibility rearranged
In anticipation
Of this intoxication
I live
In Synaesthesia
Whenever you are near

(C) Pixievic

Phlox Linum,
            Phlox Linum,
            
           som satin south alyssum,
           vivace kiss
          
           weave violin wind ******,
           caress calendula
          
           bloom bow bagatelle
           bloom allegro
           linen Primrose!
        
            Phlox Linum,
            Phlox Linum,

Just a few thoughts.

Whilst colonialism by waring nations have steadily decreased across the globe.

(((Or until the next euro-war kicks off)))

Corporate colonialism has steadily increased, seizing power in society, using it's social and economic influence to extract resources; with little or no concern for the worlds fellow inhabitants.
That's because corporate colonial power has no stake, or little compassion for the welfare of indigenous populations or local economy's; over resources.

The super elite are so detached from reality, that they literally live in Alyssum; requiring just a small workforce and an army to realise production or the acquisition of global assets.

Our worlds leaders seemingly avoid all the negative consequences of their complicity in return for there compliance.

The welfare of the surplus population, especially those too young, or too old to work is unprofitable; and as such, is poorly funded, just enough to pacify the masses and stave off civil-unrest.

Globally there is a constant and gradual increase in funding pharmaceutical, mining and military sectors, with the support of the media machine; and a gradual decline in funding environmental schemes, health, and education.

(There may be big trouble ahead)

You, the ashen alyssum
homing in on dark bushes
breeding maggots
feeding on flesh.  

You the fetid parasite  
carrion, the rotten stink
a toxin laced tongue
devouring pith.

You, the stench of
malignant blossoms
a venomous creeper, you
had to attract snakes.

You live among the graves
the poison pollinator,
a corpse floret
of foul odour.

You the venin
cloaked in smirk
a shrew, spiked with malice
must be crushed,
must die.

Ice arcs through the air
like solid lightning.
The large bolts strike with a rumble
and clatter to rest
where they gleam with bravado
at the dispirited winter sun.
The small bolts explode
with a skittering hiss
and trickle down between the bricks,
prodigal drops returning to the watertable.
Cast out from its plastic host,
the ice bears grooved testimony to their symbiosis,
but this testimony concedes to the crafting thaw
a bevel smoother than a human hand could fashion.
Some ice lies clustered on the brick paving
like terra incognita wrought on a vellum map
by the feverish imagination of an Olde World explorer.
Some lies scattered among the purple and white alyssum
in imitation of a Tyrolean spring.
As a breeze releases
the olfactory history of myriad fridge dwellers,
a cloth rings over a wire tray
in a crude arpeggio which segues into
the basso profundo of the resurrection hum.
The cycle begins anew.

What would it take for me to feel real?
Maybe money or someone that for me would kneel.
What would make me happy?
A university degree or just chocolate toffee?
I see people finding their way and everything stays strangely in order.
Maybe I have to sign a contract or just to cross the country border.
I'd feel content if I knew how to paint, how to write or how to do a speech
or simply it would make me want to escape to a quiet beach.
My head finds places, feelings and people that seem surreal
and I watch the sweet alyssum die while I skip another meal.
A simple but terrifying question burns my mind,
will I always feel so empty even if all of it I tried?
If it is all pointless in the end, what is it then to be living?
I refuse to exist in automatic but does life have any meaning?

baby's breath, tulips, disorientation,
swinging to saxophonists in french yards
and for this I cry when waking
because you’re only a fool's gold,
a vinyl alyssum, a grafted painting
yet I see you here still
on these tonic midnights
lurking in the garden of tuileries.

the angels are screaming in my ears. They’re warning me that there’s a forest fire roaring inside of me; the sweet alyssum that bloomed from the decaying memories I buried deep in my bones have burned into ash, revealing a fragile foundation that was created by scarred flesh and empty promises. I’m a pyre wrapped in a fiery rage that’s devouring my heart, igniting my lungs; inhaling the stench of smoldering melancholy, exhaling pain that resembles smoke from my cigarettes. I’m choking on my own corruption. My blood has turned into embers, keeping this fire growing louder.. a reminder that my misery will never be heard. my feet have become roots, digging into the earth that’s swallowing me like a decomposing animal; yet i will never be home, ill always be lost

The lobelia is dying. Its tiny bluish-purple
blossoms curling inward as though they are
giving up, the stems slack, lifeless. It seems
depressed.

She would ask if there is anything
she could do—but it’s a plant—and she doesn’t
speak the language of plants.

She bends down, takes the lax stems in her
hand and holds them the way she holds the hand
of the elderly woman she cares for when they
have run out of words left to share.

She’s new to this. She has not been fully
responsible for another living thing in many years.

There was once her dogs that she finally had to
surrender that time when she was in California
and wasn’t sure whether she was going to admit
herself into a psychiatric hospital or take a last walk
half-way across the San Lorenzo Bridge.

And there were her sons, whom she left behind on
two occasions because she was going mad in
Massachusetts. When the pressure had grown
too great and her resources too thin, she fled to
California to get away from it all—and both times
discovered she’d brought all her problems with her.

The last time was her Road to Damascus. She
found the dharma at a local meditation center and
brought it back with her. Minus a few difficult hurdles,
she has been equanimous ever since.

She looks at this once resplendent lobelia drooping over
the side of the planter on her deck next to the pansies, so full
of themselves, and the indifferent alyssum, and she wonders
if she can help it live. Or—if not—can she help it die?

A shivering sun arose ,
It’s embers we’re cold ,
when you said we were finished you powdered you’re nose .
Now here I stand broken and all alone ,
In a space we once called,
“ Our lovely new home “

With unknown guests ,
that peer and stare ,
and fix their eyes on me  as if I’m not there .

But I have seen them moving about ,
In chambers and sculleries when the light has gone out .
Suddenly I can feel your breath on my skin ,
musty and rank ,
as the  fleeting winds ,
that blow a chill upon my spine ,
and take my breath away in the darkness of time .

My time has gone ,
and so have you ,
and the mornings suns rays bring  a damp to th3 dew .
as the branches thicken behind the trees that bring a reddening glow ,
where the sweet Alyssum forever blooms .
As the  ravens  flap their wings I feel. my heart pumping tight to my skin ,

lost in this dark forest where  I thought I knew what was best ?
Then death brought its pungent memories of spring                       of  you and i and a tatty old photograph ,
in a book on a shelf with its pages torn out .






So I light a fire to warm my feet and toes ,,
and a flask of black coffee to face my  foes .

But now they have gone and I’m all alone ,
for the ones that once looked just peered and glowed .
Just the warmth of your touch O heaven knows ,
how long I have been awaiting all on my own.
I hear A knock on the door ,
and your cheary smile ?
Now The fires are stoked I guess your not there ,
an open door brings a chill to the air ,
but I can here voices ,
They pull up a chair,
and we spend the night talking just as if you were there .