Description: i'm thinking far too many things right now.
freshly written.
i'm off to drink some wine with my cool as fuck flatmates.
arrivederci for now.
may edit this later when i've actually read it.
i'm being hasty, saving this online so i won't lose the damn thing somehow as i've done before.
uh.
yeah.
so.
what the hell does it all mean?
doesn't matter.
poetry is a silly, magical feeling.
that's all i know.
if only all of us could dream in synchronicity -------------------------------------------
ayurveda, a penumbra of oils massaged into my back.
i turn down my speakers. most of it:
pointless noise
a snapped surfboard
a pockmarked face
snarling diatribes
over
the tang of ocean
when you cannot be near it
a glassblown shiver
when east wind
meets north
and the blue of an unopened book
with your name scratched
into the corner.
i believe in the sound of rituals
in the space between my breath and yours
singing and shining the soul of aretha
and herbie with their incorrigible
freedom.
you know that's what i want. you know
i am fruit and sky
and seaward cliffs
asking for
silence
peace and clarity
a crisp biscuit
topped with unending chocolate
and celestina
with her sparkles.
what change beyond commonplace
and the spark which ignites
unswerving passion
under stones and pipi shells
and mandrake buried
beneath the bed?
i taste butterflies
spin dinner-plates
give this poem
to you.
you seem restless all the time, a break from your words your world has revealed the clearer vision of my impression, your voice no longer erasing the shape of the pictures with those chocolate tones you speak through.
I still see your delicate spiral of sounds, the way your work has always reminded me of wind chistled stones, biodegraded down to miraculously thin arches of compressed particles, built on the back of life, shining in constantly bright orange twilight. I like how glassblown shiver and aretha pop up, one an oft used phrase turned friend, one a touchstone to the world. A stranger seen and felt as yours to use her life line meld with yours imparting on the reader a sense of ownership cos I have her voice too, and I play it as I want, I soundtrack my life with the same incorrigible joyousness.
Your work imparts: a touch of- we are the same, a touch of- I am me and this is my voice. Juxtaposition.
I like that reading you always reminds me of home, not mine per say but one im familiar with, like visiting a childhood friend.
I think of you often buddy, hope you're doing well.
and as I began to dream
the same pillow soft pronouncement
I realized it was celluloid
manufactured by shrewd
marketing executives whose
vision required three drafts
before being deemed spontaneous
enough to cradle lucid stars
Submission Name: if only all of us could dream in synchronicity
