Sometimes it's

glass ankles, glass

jaws, copper

kettles, warm

floors. 

Tricky fingers, happy

feet, saying 

grace, eating

sweets.

Rotten apples, little

toe, seen you

somewhere, making 

those

amazing pieces of lace, like those ladies did with their shawls wrapped around their heads. 

My Mind: My Eclipse.

As the rain falls, it pats my pink face.

I remember that this is not the time, 

nor the place.

I hang up my weary, yellow, jacket

and my dead sunglasses.

Realising

I am not just a sweet pair of arms

nor your play thing.

But something upon which to unload

your wares, your muscle:

A hammam for sweating bodies;

A mat for muddy shoes.

Far more than being your

pretty picture.

More troublesome than a

Lone Soldier.

Greater than Love,

Greater than Sorrow.

Instances of Abbreviation and Joy - R. Rosier

Perhaps you are too 1234 for me.

Perhaps  I treat you like 5678.

Either way

you have been unified.

Uniformed, with the intricacy your

mother first dressed you with, with a tear rolling down her foundation cheek, and her hair curling with beads of salty sweat. Black and stuck in locks. Her heart racing and her shaking hands outstretched.

This is how you became.

A Minifauvinelle. April Fool.

Listening to the empty rattle of my broken breath.

Asphyxiated by the surprise that

I can't remember where I left myself.

Woken by the flicker of something laid to rest:

Watching without my eyes.

Listening to the empty rattle of my broken breath.

Someone else wears out my socks and my shoes,

not marking the pathways so

now I can't remember where I left

myself.

Tickled by a glimmer of something left - 

A nothing I can almost trace,

and still, the empty rattle of my broken breath.

I retreat to another, further twelve,

counting and counting again.

But I can't remember where I left myself.

Bright red blocks of a better living death

I hear the empty rattle of my broken breath

I can't remember where I left myself.

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what will I be..?

One day we see that no-one is in control.

  And we shake uncontrollably,

and laugh unconvincingly

  at things that are not funny.

We take the pills.

  Take a prescription, antidote

they widen your eyes and your throat.

  And you feel your brain float.

106. In a Station of the Metro, by Ezra Pound

It would be so stupid not to include this somewhere in my blog, as it is the single most provoking thing I've ever read, as Blake wrote in his 'Proverbs of Hell': "One Thought Fills Immensity." Here it is, that one thought...

106. In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Ezra Pound (1884)

The Highest Form of Flattery

One at a time

Then both together.

The second and the minute hand

simultaneous

in the movement

one minute

    one second 

past twelve.  A

fragment of a movement

light reflected on a strand of hair

Rolling clouds 

   through rotting windows

pass over

    poppy fields.

Wistful, 

as a sweet wrapper

roly-polying down the street.

Once removed

Separated

Kept

as an old puzzle.

Still belonging!

And still, 

the pieces fit together. Both together as a 

remembered child.