Thousands of years I have lived
And now I feel like little bacteria
My heart is filled with pores
And people call it ostia

The night's are glazing with pleurobranchia
And thank God I didn't get ******* hemiplegia
Solitary I feel in my animal kingdom
I wish I could do something with my boredom.

How amazing are these euplectellian shrimps
Dieing together imprisoned
Symptoms of true love they show to me
Together up to death they are known to be.

Maybe I am the class imperfecta
But by birth I am a mammalia
I wish we could both be mycorrhiza
And get hallucinated with amanita.

Someday we would make a synapse
And get into the love with mitochondria
And there our nervous system stops
And there the impulse will walk .

No special organelles I have
I'm just 70s ribosome
My heart is incipient
With foldings of mesosome

How many foldings hold my name
Leave out who I am
Fold me and fold me
Till I can't be seen
Stored away in a drawer.

A fold is a crease
A link drawn
You folded me
So now I can't stand.
How many foldings hold my name
Leave out who I am.

Love Mary x

The matter is that the matter is that
breaking from the constant that is
breaking from the constant that is
constantly breaking constantly

patterns into even patterns into even
language of odd symmetry in the
language of odd symmetry in the
symmetrical language symmetrically

recreated again and recreated again and
seeping from what is unobservably
seeping from what is unobservably
unobserved seeping unobservably

over layers folding over layers folding
the matter over the foldings over
the matter over the foldings over
folding matter folding.

Arteries benumbed

Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun

Reading your mind even worse

Print so small

Foldings such as a roadmap

Those molecular models delineated

Moods might just as well be

Translating cuneiform

You wedge-shape marks on me

Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter

That mascara you wear

Like kajal on Persian Princess

Ovular pills with spider legs

How do I defend from?

Enigmatical ellipses

Narcotic exotic

I look for, but find no

Adjoining pamphlets or warnings

To all your strange side-effects

-

thick
blanketing  
comfortably soft
foldings enclosing
warmth around my being,

they may not insure my
safety– yet they do
provide some sense
of security

and perhaps motivation–

my hands reach inboard
along the divides between
flesh and cloth

probing contrasting textures
for a perfect fit of my fingers
into a clasping for rope

pulling for wind—

i slip off with my sail
into an ocean of dreams...



s jones
2022


.

His sparkling eyes,
His golden hair,
His lips sharing their sweetness with mine..

I closed my eyes to feel them........

But,

I had to do it, now!
I unwrapped the shiny silver knife,
The size of my palm from the foldings in my wavy gown,


Had my throat cut while leaving a scar on his face, his blood on my lips...


I fell with teary eyes, looking into his until my last breath....
He was weeping confusedly...

i used to throw bread crumbs into
a pond full of minnows next to a
place where i worked years ago

it kept me cool in the summertime,
pulling the heat out of me and
feeding it into the winds as

a turtle snapped up dozens of fish-babies,
transforming the vision of my frame into
maybe the size of a praeternatural feather

and for a moment,

i dreamt that on a clear night through the
eyes of a barnyard owl that i could
navigate the dark foldings of
space into the beating
hearts of praying
rodents—

blinking back to a view of
disturbed green waters—

i commenced
to waking...

"the frenzy, at rest"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

Enfoldings; picturesque enfoldings of memories.
Grey, hazy sights. Night brings desire to know someone again, deeply.
Fitting into sheets, blessed, breath, hot, sweat
dreamy or needy, blessed or
cold. How so cold?
Corporeal pulsings that used to quell and now do not
Now love swells, then it did not -
How did I ever sleep with a heart so hot?
Day break, forgetting - May days bring no mind ache.
A bare witness. One, alone, bedroom
soulless, mornings act, forgetting morning and
focusing on who I am now, bed plans
*** pangs
focusing on picturesque foldings of hands.

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


.