January 2011
We lying by seasand, watching yellow and the grave sea, mock who deride who follow the red rivers, hollow alcove of words out of cicada shade, for in this yellow grave of sand and sea a calling for colour calls with the wind that’s grave and gay as grave and sea sleeping on either hand. The lunar silences, the silent tide lapping the still canals, the dry tide-master ribbed between desert...
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Once I saw a very gentle
very little
girl picking flowers.
Golden genet
grew along the shore.
And the ripe girls wore garlands.
Girls with voices like honey.
And the garlands were wild parsley…
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I was birthed by the roots of a tree;
mouth full of dirt, hands full of honey
& now I’m just a worker bee working tirelessly for a faceless queen.
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I had a dream once,
A man, blowing up buildings. Demolishing cities. Wreaking havoc everywhere. I knew who he was, or, what he was- the evil he consisted of and it terrified me. What terrified me more was that I had to go where he lived, inside what he came from. The “house” was completely dark inside except for a blue glow that covered everything, as if there was a luminescent moon...
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Mind like a dreamcatcher, tongue like loose...
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