It’s a quarter to cremation
it’s half past life
and the longer I remain here
the further I float,
with my eyes open wide
my beck becomes a river
white and purging my scarred skin
from any traces of a lucid life,
and the river becomes a lake
and the lake becomes the sea,
and freshwater fish turns salty
in this my reality,
where the quarter bell tolls
just in time.
Is it still there,
the green chirping world
beyond the grey window panes.
Curtains,
I remember curtains fluttering,
an invisible hand of fate tracing
the lines of black and white;
I remember soiled curtains,
maybe grey stains – and a Dragon’s Breath.
Is it still there,
the salient sign of life beyond the creaking fences
dividing us
from them.
Carpets,
I remember soft carpets slowly coming alive,
becoming sentient and hating everything;
I remember soiled carpets,
magnolia on magnolia
maybe magnolia stained – and a Shark’s Tooth.
Is it still there,
the spell cast, the breadcrumbs left for you
to find your way back into the fold.
Door,
I remember the open door,
the keys dropped and your one-line note;
I remember a door now closed –
with only a fading memory of someone
once loved.
Ah! The smell of morning coffee,
unlike her cheap perfume last night
it makes me want to see
another day, another way
ahead.
Ah! The dripping from dunking
this stale bread, like our conversations
it softens with time.
Ah! The whispers under white sheets,
like raging torrents in the pine forests
made of sterner stuff than I
am.
Ah! The dreams again find their way
into the grey matter, hard as rock
like the place of my solitaire for you
presently occupied by another’s.
Ah! The smell of morning coffee.
Without it, what would I be?
I fry my madness in lard,
charred pieces awaits you,
yummy yummy you,
I toast my sorrow over virgin fire,
sprinkle thinly on melting ice cream,
sweet sweet betrayal,
I down my final pint, drown on dry land,
my cheers and two-finger salute
greet no one, gulp gulp bittersweet,
I wait for a stir, a moment of hurt
deep enough to crack the shell,
enough to raise me up to greet,
I wait, but nothing moves,
in my jungle nothing moves
but snakes.
lydiateasedale-deactivated20221:
2. [ Doll mode activated ]
smooth plastic limbs
change by the day.
new scars, general wear&tear;
both occur most frequently
after an activation.
blood makes Doll
think she’s human.
blood tricks the eyes.
… blood makes Doll
think she’s human.
blood tricks the eyes …
and the man, who once were a boy
woke to find a couch nibbling
on the late night crackers left –
without cheese.
and the man, who once were a boy
saw a sign: EXIT, near an arrow
pointing left: the stage unlit
and no whispers.
and the man, who wished he were
that boy again,
found neither reassuring; the mice
scurried in the fading future dreamt.
Hidden in white spaces
a life in empty lonely lines,
beyond the full stops
where once green forests stood
like mighty pines and firs
snowcapped silver birch
no silent storms roar,
no need for more
than space, more space,
you called it space –
your freedom.
Your golden buttercups alight,
like starlight on a dreary day,
the scene of the crime, of adventure:
I chase red ants in a blue striped suit,
slow sandy socks rest
in dusty patent leather shoes;
I crawl and trawl the murdered grass
seeking to reassert, to reestablish
dominion;
I dive and swim your blue ocean
until your grey sky becomes my dread,
my fear of drowning without escape.
Your golden buttercups
spread thinly on wholesome toast
with blacker than black Joe,
an open window and a lonely lark,
and that smile – a crime of passion
un-punishable.
