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.