i do not
want to nice today
my nice is broken
and makes mean
sounds like a killer bee
crossed with zombie —
the fast ones, not slow
— and my smile
is more frowny
my eyes gone slanty
and i am tired of
this show
i am ready
to wander to wood
and just wait there
for the snows
because my nice
is 100% broken
and my mood
just blows.
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she winters...
growing colder
as nights draw longer
she ice shaves scrape
her nails white & blue
alone in
her crystal room
to ash her hair
at least none dare
to slip beyond
the chill
because here is where
she winters
and winter here
she does still
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two colour eyes true
after summer and ash
held hands in floodlands
and twin river above
there, redwing lingers
dancing cattails
and dragonflies
smelling of wet leaves
before the frost
here, we rain
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How do I write a story? I forget. Perhaps one goes a little like this:
There once was a little girl, and she liked red and so she wore red. Except that her mum called it crimson and her da preferred scarlet. But the fae said it was more poppy, and so that stuck because her mum thought it a more cheery thing than those other blood colors.
The girl said nothing at all and not because she did not have a mind of her own, but because someone had stolen her voice before she was born and she had no head for writing, though she knew plenty of words like “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, “snicker-snack” and “albatross” (a word she dreamed of shouting from the top of the radio tower that rose over the place she was born). But writing those words? Oh, well, that just was not something she could do.
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lips curve the crest of breast
jasper ocean eyes to drown
carving thigh lace with night
wordless of the wind sigh
for fingertipped dew glides
riding of the moon with night
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tick tock
with cogs and clock
with arms a'
spinning and whirling
don't lose your head
or you'll wind up dead
with fingers gone
stiff and curling
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asking the wrong questions
if only we could
take them back
and ask the answers
instead
blind to deaf
my mute mouth moves
in time to raindrops
on summer's hot
metal roof
waiting to forget
all that i sought
to know
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grundylocks and grimley
gone running through the green
chasing after unicorns in
the backyard of childhood dreams
waving with their hacksaws
and their axes and their gonnes
grind a horn to tincture, say they
to drink to gruesome songs
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I seem to have puppets on the brain these past few days. In part, it has something (in part) to do with purchasing and playing a game that I wasn’t sure I would like. But that’s not the only thing prompting the ponders on puppets.
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gather bones
gather leaves
gather poppets
gather strings
pop cracks stone
dancing fire
dancing sparks
dancing poppets
dancing leaves
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