An Open Letter

May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

They have fallen.

I can’t invite you over for dinner. It’s political.

C’mon Barca, c’mon Hakl.

With a human face, the world turned upon us and (brace yourself) heaved us over

into the dust trim water

I’m mad at that Hesperus Star. If you think love is the answer, go.

I think we see love in different colours, you and I.
Augh.

It’s political. I’m there, in the square. No- I’m heading to the Riviera to teach the pope’s lovechildren how to say ‘ketsir’ in five different languages.

In my heart, I’m there, in the square.

Am I editing my colour, just to be able to bear the others? The shade around the edges?

Splash! goes the sky.

Ash from northern-lit fields, on fire.

We see it differently, you and I.

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Give them ice for their fevers:

May 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

all the silver girls working on their black dreams
Shalott is brimming with their weaves

I’ve never had the chance to colour it- all the year leaving on a ship

eating rinds of clementines

dear, dear breed of tar-nighted twos and threes
there’s only one for me

there’s only one for me

and he comes when I’m asleep
I never when I am

because I’m not
hailshine

nor the other: I am the fear

it visits in the attic and taps too high
for the floor for hear
words

I return flush-cheeked and free to a line

beyond it a still flies

A Drag?

May 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

Twenty-four days and counting…going…going…

I have this ache: purple.

Remember last week I went out and came home with purple sheets and purple paint. If you don’t I do.

Funny the things I do. Funnier the things I don’t.

They stole my bicycle. I sat on the library lawn and picked petals from my corsage.

‘Tell him. Tell him not. Tell him.’

Well, it’s hardly likely now that you’ve received a blaring white anxious blip of a message telling you about sexual sustenance.

Needs. And implications.

And me- one stubborn streak of a wee’un.

World grant me strength.

I -I watch the spin and turn- have washed you from a galaxy of tar.

This is giving colour.

My hands keep cutting themselves on things I can’t imagine, because I’ve stopped writing.

Will it come back to me?

Are there things I need?

I get god. I get need. I get that you are muddled in the middle.

If there are scars I can’t see, neither than I kiss them better with this colour.

It’s May, morning, and it’s raining.

But it’s not purple, it’s a milky white sheen on an indigo road. It came so close.

Being purple is a drag.

Where Am I?

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