There are times when the wind takes hold of the desert and carries it far out to sea in sandstorms too brutal for even memory to hold. And I was lost and found in the firelight of whispered stories, heroes of ruin sung into lullaby with the sweetness of rum and reminiscence. And maybe there were warnings there, but … Continue reading The Art of Drowning -episode 1- by Jac Forsyth
9am. A dustcart trails cherry blossom in bridal chaos. Traffic roulette spins on who's gonna carry the scent bouquet. A guy asks strangers for money and his words rehearse legitimacy through an ice show of withdrawal. £21 for shelter, he says. I don’t ask what sort of shelter he means. 9.15am. I sit in a cafe … Continue reading HOURGLASS
Dawn scatters these abandoned skies, cankered in memories of bone and burned outcast grey with the clinkers. I say do as you're told Reborn days blink ashtray eyes, another nightlight outgrown and called into flesh by the fragrance of stinkers. when you're alone with the enemy Torn dolls in hearsay lies, tales of rag and truth postponed and woven silk … Continue reading Rag and Bone
When I handed this blog over to the unpredictability of TPRS I had no idea where it would go. But, the diversity and depth of talent here on WordPress kills me every day. You push me, reading your work makes me a better writer, you see things that are far deeper than the salt and pepper … Continue reading Peril and Performance
Another flare, and she forgets that there is anything but poison left in her mind. Four Two. Files corrupted. Can't use the right words. Four Two. Take it. Take it. In bee stings and car crashes. Leave the money you bastards. She screams. And toxin stumbles, heavy as wet sand. She says. Lanterns always burn … Continue reading Four Two
Maybe I’ll never post anything again so I can keep this at the top of my page. Crow, you kill me.
hope is the thing with feathers
despair is the thing with scales
i am the watermelon man
reduced to a slick white rind
my seeds swallowed on accident
or spit into the street
for angels to pick and peck at
eli, eli, i’ve been thinking
some days the color leaches
out of everything
some days the everything
tastes of pine resin
and trail dust
if you swallow a watermelon seed
one will grow in your belly
and then what will you do
always feed them to the angels
with the oil slicks around their necks
i’ve been thinking
It’s still National Poetry Writing Month!
Check out these sites:
‘A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride.’ Dang. Check out this beauty of words by the superb, ankandas.
Lot of things don’t make any sense,
my sitting on the incinerating surface of the Venus and listening to this somnolent melody coming out of nowhere.
But it’s moulded with moroseness there,
Raping every fossils of this creation.
Numbness has it’s peculiar language to convey the turmoils within.
I wonder what if, of all people i could ever attain that,
my brain cells know about the guns and the tranquility after every bullets.
Am I too vulnerable to do anything or even to think anything?
I guess everyone is or isn’t.
A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride,
living race only got these to dance through this aesthetic circus.
Indifferent city smoking away the scrumptious craps, honey like violence…and smitten hallucinations.
Thank you very much for this starless spell.