Friday, 17 April 2015

here is the inbetween time,
measured by the throbbing of pulses.

blood moves with such purpose.

apples fat with their own juice
balance precariously
in a blue bowl that's too small.

the white orchid is blooming in abundance
but startlingly still able to hold her own weight.

picasso's constellations scratched on the floor boards
because it's all about interpretation
and I want nothing but to dance amongst stars.


(what if I were to ask you to hold out your arm so I could taste the salt and sunshine of your forearm, write love letters on your hands?....let the clouds roll in. we are each of us pilgrims and I have the ourorboros curled at the base of my spine sitting in comradery with the scarab around my neck and we're all moving ever higher and closer)

1 comment:

tentaculitidae said...

painted in vertical streams from above, quietly syllable by syllable, like raining crosses in a woodcut from a book about strange weather, thoughts collected in bowls and robes. words carefully pressed between book pages almost like plants