a twist on a turn of words
her flower, his hunger
they spin stone for bottle
counting crows perched
high on the live wire
to see who gives what & how
his is the spring
& her seething gives to dance
with her flair, her flail
her everything & ghost
his everything & love
suspecting the hollow
of the old trunk
in the field alone stands
they spin bottle for stone
while crows writhe & laugh
at how the given becomes what
in seething this spring
Of the rubble they wandered, she and the one she called Puck; she dressed in crimson and ash while Puck was dressed in Puck, a shadow somewhere between chrome scuffed and tetris blocks that might have been mustard yellow, if not for the scorching and scratch. Azur, too, if you looked atop his aluminum pate from above or when not aloft — a rarity given the nuclear pellet fueling his eternal flight.
Stones rattled for reasons only stones know, and fell to the scree near her feet with wonton abandon. If Puck did not have encyclopedic reference to the circuitric contrary, it might have thought the stones were rushing down from the remnants of highrises to worship the angel at their base. Puck certainly did, but that was his nature. The girl was its goddess and its life and, even if they had been programmed otherwise, it would still choose this life of servitude under her wing. Call it love, for even machines may become such things as the capacity for love.
Puck tensed at the howl of greymalkin prowling distant, yet close enough to warrant caution. She dressed of vermillion tensed not at all, which was her nature, such as was her trust given to Puck. It was for Puck to worry while she wandered and his servos did whine at the unexpected danger lurking the shadows beyond. How far was far enough? it wondered. Almost immediately, it responded, Never enough, but was loath to leave his charge for the time required to chase the great cats off.
So Puck did the only sensible thing and flew closer to her and did what all things must eventually consider as their final option when danger lurks nearby: hope.
And so, Puck hoped while the greymalkin cast out more mewls and cries, suggesting the hunt had begun.
Puck sighed relief when the sounds moved away from their location, and it embraced the momentary calm, as short-lived as it was like to be.
this is a day of
desire slips to fade
and we watch only
the forests burning
”i’m too old for this shit.”
in muttered underbreath
“too old for this shit
by far.”
flames lead to smoke
lead to sputtering fuel
gone damp in the
marsh of neglect
nightjar calling at moon
waving away those
memories from when
we were young
At long drag, the fens and fog draw down, sucking the moon behind a veil of shadows to obfuscate and obscure. Edgewater, nightwalking slow, shoulders burdened of regret and battleworn, he shambles all shagged, matted and weary to the dampness of home.
These invasions falling into his moors and swamps, they ache with each needle piercing at the festering wound of birth. Could they not find another fallow place for their disruption? He scoffs at the idea, certain that the answer will remain that his time has grown overdue and, like these wild places, he must also be forced to submit or wither.
And submission is not his nature; and so he shuffles from damp stone to damp stone, wary of the moss growing slick over each, lumbering on his way home to rest. For tomorrow there will be fresh battles to weary him to the bone. A wry smile, only tugging at one corner of his mouth, at the thought. When that day comes, he will lay down his fatigue and return to dirt. Rest comes for all, eventually — but in this, he must struggle bitter to the end.
awake again
the night sharp
against bare arms
and needles in
the brain
to rest my cheek against thigh
fingers hair entwined
waiting for the glow of stars
to shine and fill me of you
nobody knows I'm a storm
I'm dawn on the mountain
twilight on the townalone with
the icy moon
no passion
these trees
this mountain
nothing elseall koans just lead you on
but not the delicious pussy
of the young girls I go down onno more Zen
write one great line
like a needle piercing
a sore spot on your arm— Ikkyū
needing not to need or
to be the object needed
a settle into sitting as
do stone, moss and tree
just a drift of fine snow
blowing feathers across
the long and open road
whispers polish asphalt
under a sun hung low
