Hey Doll

Take it off.

Take it all off and show your skin.

Peeling dried

smooth cheeked

sun-bleached fringes of dull jaded fern

You hate it, I know,

You hate the limits that your skin has an end

That air touches you and makes you real

That you watch so many things from a window

Orb of yellow, pool of spite

Light in your eyes

distorted with layers of temperature and current

You are not real you are a vapour trying to keep its form

What form will the spaces give your face now

Will you be pious?

Good little girl, brave face

Sliding down in beads of water

Hardly seen

Coming up again in a cloud

Hardly seen

You have no touch you are painted over

Hello, doll.

Trauerblumen 1917 Painting by Paul Klee; Trauerblumen 1917 Art Print for sale

Flight

There was a shape on the grass

A tree rising over it like the skin line of smoke

Smooth gloss rub and

Nacre black feathers

With vanes like blades of water

lying by the tar soaked edge of a beach.

The eyes were of shifting metal,

Melting and dropping and reforming,

What or if they saw

They saw madness

I put my hand on the crow

Not crow, not alive, not beak, not black

But mine.

Faint webbed skin lying against sleek feather

kneeling curved over small crumpled body

Dotted black on a flat spread line of green,

A strand of feather against the billowing blue sky.

And the grass russet against the head,

Rushed away from the body

It rolled green towards the edges

Ran into stalks of gold swaying warily

And then down, down into the brown earth sinking into purple.

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Inside

I’ve been feeling strange recently. It’s summer so I’m home for a bit. My dog has started acting hostile towards me. My head hurts all the time and I feel crushed with some massive invisible weight. I think it’s the weight of all the future. It’s just so daunting, that way, that trek to reach the threshold you’ve set for yourself and I just can’t stop thinking about how much time it’ll take me, how hard it will be, all the horrid, grimy little details.

My mind wanders off in strange unsettling directions. Violence. Xenophobia. I suddenly no longer recognise the world I live in. It changes like the weather, and why do we develop feelings of trust if human beings, collectively, change like the weather? 

Sideways and onward, hitting walls and splitting bones

we move like a juggernaut crushing

ether, nails, and fists that make cornerstones

everything the air the sides of the invisible

crusting over

with hands grasping climbing choking blocking

thousands and each other and grasping their own throats

circle

circle

everywhere and nowhere

we sink and we rise

though fit to be despised

 

Everything I write seems to be of a sour colour and I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my head above everything. 

Who I want to be

Underlined and no longer inside