Monday, August 1, 2011


Oceanside Wildflowers by sMacshot

it is important that i recall what enchantment feels like.
the mermaids are not singing to me.
my body has lost its focus and occasionally merges with couches and table-legs and
twice last week it thought it was a bedsheet.

creative as the ocean, tumbling and spasming to spit something out, and always coming up with chipped fragments of itself.
___the aquatic-engine and i are getting tired ,

sleep is out of the question.

i can stare at wood for hours, waiting for , contemplating some excitement, mentally scraping
stones together hoping for a spark

these thoughts are leaves in a stagnant river.
i can smell them from here.

what do i do? what do i do while i wait to be seduced by women's ankles and baby's
miraculous cheeks and another Bach cantata and the summer-glare-red of 1967 Mustangs parked in the street?

i get the feeling we're all screwed without knowing why or where from and more dangerously
i get the feeling i don't care a bit not in the slightest ,
i get the feeling of a happiness-variant i don't know the name of

that sits in the waiting rooms of hospitals and while people laugh at me waits patiently
and when i fail forgets to mourn

and tackles day after day by waking up. __just that much. __(tells me that's enough.

thoughtlessly walks straight where once-upon-a i'd thoughtfully get lost in circles

does what's asked of it without requiring anything more than the liberty to grunt,
when it's too much sits in the bathroom with the fan on and stares at the moldy wall

waiting for decisions to pick him

looking under car-seats and twenty-year-olds for first kisses with tulips and

god damn when falls over it hurts in a new way , these bones are no longer made for breaking
all the while: the knived words of youth are mostly milk now,
except for when they're not.

my loves fall to marriage and distance like flower petals you lose track of when they slip from your fingers after having rubbed their soft eyelids and the backs of their ears and the napes of their necks for so long ,
___the smell of you my love...

more and more words are unnecessary, it is a matter of what you know and more of what you don't.

the beginnings of all these motions i can see now , nestled safely (now) in my years-ago , locked away where i can't tamper with them anymore but merely watch the trains come past and think whether it's time i stepped on. or off.

it's ok when you wake me. _i like to find your body again and again , each time with the room a different colour ,
a new miracle between our aged kisses ; where your hand touched me i've grown flowers
but the rest is moss now

when they bury me i'll spit out three crab legs and some shells and gasp for air as i ebb a step back

i am finding life easier to bear but myself more and more anomalous

how blurry have the shadows become

the hair i have lost has borne no children

the mermaids are hushed , the waves try for sapphires and land on seaweed that'll be cracked by noon.

shhh, my love, look at this, how this room has changed, how we sit now so new amongst this

(look my love, how weathered we sit amongst this newness)