My days are numbered
But I can’t count on it
Even though one is alone
Two’s company
Three’s the magic number
Four can be dirty
Five can be high!
Six can be nine
Seven is somehow lucky
Eight likes its own reflection
And for some nine means no
Tenfold!
At an aggressive speed
I was losing my way
I was feeling so alive
Seeing what could never be
The atmosphere burned red
And so I thought of what will be
…from now on
I noticed then what I never see
Chrome slithering roads and bloodied sky
With all moistures weeping in blue
Rolling, cruising, endless
On and over flattening mountains
This is what I’m telling you
Those slow buildings in green
I’ve finally found out what I almost lost
And sensed what I had never seen
All around while dissolving out
Through and into the Firesky!
The stick, without a doubt, was unique, magical, no longer was it lost amongst the woodlands fallen, a delightfully crooked stick had tickled my fancy, held my attention without ceremony.
Waiting for me to notice it, call it to my hand; to grasp it, hold it aloft my busy dome, with childish influence.
The stick imprinted its distress and aged decay onto the palm of my soft, puffy hand; in the colours of the earth and leaf.
This staff, or a wand, some kind of weapon of my calling, or just an old warped walking stick, was to defend myself against the unknown, in shadow, as I sometimes danced staccato through woods and hedge way.
Unscathed, my unspectacular home door, now unlocked, into my actual security. I leave the stick outside, importantly, in the back garden, propping up the garage of course.
Now, somehow, my stick has gone, from too much time being forgotten, time stretched so thin, washed out, into an unnecessarily detailed painting of an adult realm, crumbled into invisibility, to earth, maybe it has travelled back to its place where I first owned it… maybe.
I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room. I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.
Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.
Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.
Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.
All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.
Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.
Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen. As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.
It is then we leave the room together.
Dry twinkling grains
Soft sucking imprints
Moulding
Swallowing spaces
Between your toes
Temporary still
Of someone’s moment
Until erased
By unempathetic sea
A liquid giant
Sand pushing machine
Of Its own arcade
No coin-op
When thoughts are all you think of,
and memories are all you make,
and when your dreams are all you care for,
what are you doing now? For goodness sake!
The green heart; a sickened muscle,
burned putrid from a passive mind,
because the owner thinks they could be nicer,
when deeper in thought; they’re knowingly unkind.
I Eat Let.ers 