Monthly Archives: July 2020

Cities #11


Flowers are nice. The desire wound right around the starting line where the wind picks up. The hard outer shell sharp to a point opens out into pale blue blooms. The sky welcomes the shift and crumbled sheets where a tiny head and tiny hands lay sleeping. I pivot where the meaning starts to fray while remembering the kaleidoscope of orange and black land and flutter and land again. Resigning myself to the fact that I will not transform came easy, one look in the mirror and the wound reopened in the present tense. Breathing does not come easy, every movement is forced and considered but somehow I play my part in reseeding the wildflowers and weeds. I am worth my weight in fruit or at least I take that to be my truth.

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Cities (working title) #10

When the line is loose all bets are off and somewhere the voices and somehow the insignificant details start to glow. The wind that felled the tree never seemed like felling me but I crumble and crumble and only hope for the world to turn. To begin, a word is a bold assertion of time and purpose and love and being with or without yet somehow I struggle to decide what to eat and when to care. I strip it all back and every day I strip it all back to find guilt and shame and history. I have no eye for detail or colour or position or numbers or social niceties. I lie. For a time and round deep and background noise I play ball and laugh and nod and hit every note. The move is step and step and turn and turn up the volume. Hold your own, throw a ball, let your chest swell, make your mark, fill your lungs. The list is the shortest point between a and being someone else so I fold myself in to take up less space because already the world is too full of chatter.

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we draw the long birds

to scale across multi volumes


tracing the vivid bachelor button

through cornfields and the history of horticulture


my namesake by the ditch

supplanted in winter 


align the jack

and wade to the edge


a flush and a spring



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fashions for forgetting  

lonely is not a state of being

but being without

planted among the crises

which continuously bloom

born out of winter

the crawling wind takes love

turns of a two-pence

and ‘hey’ he said 

walking swiftly along the equilibrium

sequin bellasandrian 

we call our mothers

mother and trail lights

red and blue and the sudden drop

and green and blue and blue

and red wither 

to      step     out

amongst the asphalt and afternoon drinkies

seized by the longing for guilt and other histories

the stinging sweetness casts into the ebb

we fall apart 

smacking our lips to the sound of snares and hi-hats 

losing the breeched vocal irregularities

it is unavoidable

it is the undeniable that makes us believe

in the turning point crackle

tear up

poor ponder

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