made of fear

 

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her grey hair lifts from where it spreads across the pillow,

she wakes in a sweat.

she believes in her dreams,

paying close attention to the man wielding the axe,

made of wisps, made of fear.

she moves to stand up.

surrendering to her will, surrendering his axe,

the man lies down on her mattress, engulfed in her scent,

dreaming of ashen tresses,

and of slender arms lifting a glistening axe.

 

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it’s colder now

the vision 1880 unknown photographer

 

this house does not creak,

it’s too brand new.

nothing settles at night.

the ghosts of our pasts

stampede in silence

skirting past lamps and vases,

cautious around the cat.

the season has changed,

it’s colder now

and the tree may come out soon.

joy will have come and gone,

no one will have noticed,

for the eeriness

dampening all sound.

remote

Sandal Soles - Medieval Art @ MET

she knows a person she’s never touched yet

physically

just a soul she’s encountered from afar

someone with moods and likes and jokes and heart ache

same station, opposite platform,

a breathing figure

not reaching out for anything,

just waiting for something good to come by,

just like she is.

so they’re both just sitting here (and there)

with vague ideas about things etc.

one stands up to get a snack from the vending machine,

the other thinks that maybe she’ll do the same.

melancholic, yet nothing close to it.

she knows what it’s like to be alone in a small place,

yet certainly not lonely everywhere.

there’s someone else, quite like her, quite like.

both just wonder what the other would do

if the platforms were to merge into a great hall,

but feed that thought no further.

why-cause the separation is the wait

for a carriage to take each one

where they’re meant to go.

the divide assumes no company is needed

for any distance, for any while.

so the passengers sit where they are,

waiting to board a train,

both turn their heads to the sound

of a fog horn.

right there on those rail tracks that isolate the platforms,

is an anchoring ship.

élan

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i was told to have a festival within me

a sort of unexplained hoopla

but inside me it is stoppered

and nothing good is festering

progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,

g, wake up early, love life

-no

-stop

i cannot channel the spirit that will

help me look forward to paying bills

it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,

with no beating of the drum

no sayonce

nothing to smile about, really.o for it

Garble

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i have undressed a thousand times

but i still do not know myself naked

why should i, when all i have done

is plaster my image on to a canvas too good

for the likes of my oozing pores

i could scrub out all that is earthly within me

and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth

 bound to places, times, memories, maggots

so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should

gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia

i thrust the impressions i have of myself

underneath fervent currents

and carry on,

dirt in my cavities,

dust in my eyes.