silver velvet sky

You may hear it, or feel it at the edge of your fingertips as you place them on another’s chest, or put your ear to the trembling body of a little creature. It beats, a low, fast, desperate song that is proof. Beat, after beat, life. Life exists.

Then again, you feel the same tick at the centre of an old clock, or a pocket watch. Less flesh, more mechanical, but it still beats. Proof of life lays there too, beneath glass faces and turning arms. Time is alive, tick after tick after tick.

B u t   w e   k i l l e d   i t .

What blinks back at us now are led lights and lifeless numbers. A dead, silent impression of what time once was. No thrum of immortality that time once stood with. No wonder we are always running out, running late, too late. We work with times weary spirit.

Doubting it all.

And here I stand wanting to rewind to stop press pause but I can’t. Life is not like a song, your love not like the words…

xxxiv.

limestone memory gradually dissolving into flowing time, passing by mercilessly.

evasive fragments washed away, nourishing the voracious ocean of oblivion.

erosion of mind;

a liminal space where boundaries thin like wisps of smoke in early dawn light.

but there is beauty in this too, soft pastel colours, a quiet empty echo of laughter and then darkness, encompassing and heavy, pressing into lungs but still radiant somehow.

for now demons count souls like dollar bills held close to devil red chests, smiles curling because they think that they’ve won.

but one day those girls will see past black ringed promises bartered at an intersection of road, down to the skin that was already perfect and that quiet empty echo of a soul that had been perfect too.

hell will see. the four horsemen are nothing compared to an army of girls ready to reclaim what is theirs.

a. what other poets style do you emulate the most?

b. do you write with too much imagery or too little?

c. write four poems in one day or go three weeks without writing anything?

d. do you have your poetry organized or are you more likely to write half a stanza on a one dollar bill and then spend it by accident?

e. bird imagery or ocean imagery?

f. what was the last poem that you loved?

g. do you write about people or landscapes?

h. dreams or real events?

i. who do you write for?

j. what is the worst thing about your writing? what is the best?

k. what’s the best line you’ve ever written?

l. how much do you edit a piece before you consider it complete?

m. how long does it take you to write a poem?

n. ghosts or angels?

o. god or sunlight?

p. soft or harsh?

q. safety or happiness?

r. how long have you been writing?

s. who is your favourite poet? you have to pick just one.

t. what is your favourite line of poetry?

u. would you be okay with never being well known?

v. slow or frantic?

w. what colour is your poetry?

x. who, if anyone, do you send your new poems to?

y. is your poetry light or dark?

At the back of my leather

is a blur, of monstrous quality and aberrant endowment. A

silhouette so  teratoid, ill defined yet  theatric in its proportions.

An amorphous responsibility  fixed to warp my spine, to empty what is a puppet’s build.

This obscurity about my frame

I and it are not.

flowers bloom, stars twinkle, and skies they stretch, bursting, with ribbons of clouds bathed, in a kaleidoscope of colors,

fools, they are what do they know? how my heart stays taken, nonchalant to their mild seduction, I am, so deeply moved by the beauty of my love, I have, eyes only for him.