Booze

After a bottle of sparkling
fine bubbles,
zesty and plucking my strand of decorum, frayed.
Pink, flushed skin like sandpaper,
cries to clean sheets as they try to recall a suppleness.

It will be windy in my dreams tonight.
A tacky mouth
is the window shutter snapping openshut,
the sloppy tongue
lathered thick with the white paste of truth,
foul smelling.

A lie is like a garden rose, fresh and transient,
you’ll remember it.
The truth, like manure will help you grow.

In Magazine Moods

In magazine moods
you can read and understand everything.
It is illuminating, I enjoy saying that word so much and it makes me think of Lee in Secretary.
So,
I’ll sing myself to sleep with these five syllables and wish you would leave me a tape on my dining room table for when I am in moods such as these.
Record on both sides with a complete breakdown of everything you think, in general, up to this very point in time.
It should be so to the point that it will be at once frustrating and painful to press stop and “deliver the goods” to my wooden table.

Oh dear…
I am feeling capable of clarity and that translates to me having another shot at contemplating what is going ON.

So,
we weren’t on a desert island, starved of choice.
There wasn’t to be any primitive lust manifesting itself as we sat on the couch and surely if such explosions were to take place, hindsight would reveal that it tasted exactly the same as everything that ever come before it, how empty. To be avoided.
But!
Our habitat was plush and conversations got built. Oh!
They were mighty and tough and they grew and we climbed them in an evening.

IT WAS PLAIN WONDERFUL.

In the past you would have pretended certain discussions were like a running tap and we SHOULDN’T WASTE WATER!
TURN IT OFF! You’d say.
It would leave me to make do with washing our wounds in some tepid muck.

I know that my magazine mood could be far better spent reading a newspaper. It pays to be well informed!
But!
I won’t be pretending that I don’t murmur about us to myself, please don’t either.
This wound isn’t attached to you or me, but we are standing and watching it,
The Weeping, Gaping Wound. The imagery is a poor choice I know, but we aren’t dressing it and would we exist if we did?
We spray beauteous perfume in its general direction and then we snatch at each others lips and pretend our tongues don’t grow longer from reaching and we pinch each other skin closer.
Then,
we let go and are a little baggier than before and we exercise distance and it is instantly strange.
But WE have willed it so.

Conversations in Reflection

Lately I have been snarling at my reflection.
One should be careful otherwise they end up eating their own tongue.
That’s NO fun!
Certainly not for the likes of you…
I think I look furry.
Perhaps you’re slowly becoming your animal totem?
I think that would make me rather proud.
Well at least use it to pounce, prowl and perhaps
Puncture some incomplete assumptions!
How can an assumption be incomplete?
If it lingers and lets you hover over reality as if it’s
Pending?
Exactly.
Well, then this is Perrrfect.

In My Dream

I dreamt of growth
it was taller and more empowering than even your stature.
You are Ease, visually speaking and my dream reflected this perfectly.
In your bedroom there is so much wood, still breathing the soft hum of life
just happening.

Through the window just above your bed
a gum tree branch hangs in
and stays permanently for a chat.
You let its limp limbs stretch out and rest on a pillow.
Does everything in here elongate?

You imprinted my fingers with eucalyptus and trusted me to make you a cup of tea and I forewarned that these things come down to chance.

My mouth just spluttered out
crumbs
with the timing of garden sprinkler.
I’d rehearsed everything I said and it sounded stale.

But in this room
your room, I tasted change.

My passageways are clear and you will shortly cease to be just an idea.