The Last Moon on the Left (excerpt)

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The bizarre kettle-shaped spaceship, suddenly turns off its powerful engine of raging bubbles. Now, both young boys listen intensly, to the slow, muted, thud of footsteps… from the creepy bottom step… to the agonisingly close and creaky top step of the stairs.

But it’s soon after those footsteps stop, after the deathly silence they create, when something that sounds as light as a balloon, and travelling in the unnatural breeze of the night; bumps innocently light, then mysteriously heavier (again and again) onto the exposed floorboards of the landing.

Luke (the younger ) suddenly remembers that in the most recent past, he had found ‘the landing’ very confusing, because nothing that he was aware of… until now, had ever landed there.

Laughing in my Sleep

I took shape… I was like a dolphin with endorphins… an endolfin maybe,

and all the while, somebody was flying around at ground level;

on a rolled up gym mat.

Yet, the children walked by, never blinking an eye; it was the only thing they could do whilst getting lost in the playfields.

It was then, when i had returned; waist deep in pond water; lifting a sorry flower from the aqua; reminding me of intricate, unfolding origami, it bloomed instantly in my wrinkled palm.

Oh… me and the encompassing crowd,

we barked and clapped like a close knit colony of slow-motioned seals; high on friendship and wonder.

Exit, Entrance to Exit

The whites of her eyes trembled like approaching dual headlights in heat-haze.

Each pinkly foot all a blur; cradled loosely by a pair of slip on cups; adjoined by two nonsynchronous shotguns; lock and loading; firing her across the nightclubs remix of slip and adhesion.

Her slight outline; disappearing/reappearing; a visual offbeat to the paparazzi furore that follow her with discord; some giddy travel through extra-terrestrial lights of seizure.

To a close country border,

Fire doors! she cried, unlikely to be heard… or in thought.

Now here is the swing and hinged odds; potholed by scattered youth with inebriated limbs; blotted by dazed fireflies that danced in the smokes.

Surrendering to official air, the same air that blows your sweat gently across your neck into deltas on your chest, only reminiscent… to be felt.

When gravity falters, this Mother Earth is momentarily off her axis.

Her daughter follows one snaking line of shy neon; in and out of sight, forever smaller, staccato, in black, can paranoid be the night?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wind Paintings

Some sunlit Sunday when the wind began to paint; swirling lines around windowed tombstones,

Chroming dull, jutting decay and the ironic dancing of litter; saturated with audacities,

Shading the herding commuters with realism and the scattered loiterers in impressionism.

Not forgetting the multi-toning of everything with tornadoes, and the requisite highlighting with hurricanes.

Then for some; the inability will be – to see the bigger picture; with all the unnecassary force

Of incessant rains upon swollen, rolling seas.

This weather has found it’s new career.