low pressure systems

tangled in sheets in the low light, my breath grows heavy as the sky. I blame the weather for that steady descent. The air pressure to close to my skin, the morning nipping bare flesh with invisible teeth. Biting my bottom lip i writhe through these early hours. Housebound with lust and shaking fist at the barometric yearnings oscilatting from scalp to sex and back again. On days like this i cannot be trusted. Falling like rain onto every inch of open space.

settle

it begins to recede. A slow outward motion. Like a breath. Like a moon. Like a tide. I settle with the sun. Make treaties with my anxieties in wet cement on the way home. Over my shoulder is debris and sandcastles, mementos and grand gestures. In my heart is a small bird singing a song about the virtues of coals.

orange light

sometimes we spin so fast we forget we are whirlwinds. Until the dust gets in our eyes. My circles grew concentric until i was turned on my head. Staring inwards instead of across. Confronted with the obscenity of my desires. My lists hang flacid, redundant. I am scratching through the dot points into finer detail. All that is superfluous drifts into the ether. I am left with enough to call my own'.

fucking ouch

the day was a dull ache. Curled into blankets, cocooned in feathers i am drifting between this world and the next. A steady throb and a distant pounding, i am paralysed in this week of lists. The rest is welcome till the boredom sets in. I long for something to sink my teeth into.

something to tide me over

i bear my canines. Revert to mammallian tendencies for something to sink my teeth into. Follow gut instincts till theres nothing but bile and contraction. Eventually, everything must pass through. In the last hours of sunday i am sallivating with technocentric dreaming. I am steaming tender things until they are done. Fledgling ambitions grow wings on nights like these. Falcons do burnouts across the horizon in search of new places to rest. i hold onto kite strings and practice all that i saw.

fissures

on this day, despite the sunlight i am sunk into the fissures. Small pockets of shade sheild me from petty gestures of small talk. Today i sling my introspection between the morning and the afternoon. Wait paitently for the sun to shift, and i with it, towards dusk.

dust storm

i get caught in the cross fire. My mouth already foaming, i roam the streets sniffing leftovers, searching for a place to bury old bones. Theres nothing left to pick. Select cuts already sliced and diced and thrown it to the stew. I try to simmer. Maintain a slow bubble. Avoid the burn outs and black pots and steel wool scrubbings that leave fingers raw. The steady hiss of the pressure cooker is comforting. It reminds me of everything forgotten and warm.

mobile

the last of us slunk into the evening. Rolled back shoulders as we went. when the light catches us we become our own people. Before we disappear into blankness again. i've become obsessed with small things. Trinkets made for pockets. Thoughts that comfort when rolled over in the palm of your hand. my heart quivers. Barely audible. I blame it on the cold.

a smallpoint

hush now.

theres no point thrashing your way through the opening credits. rolling eyes and strolling syntax have no place in the back row of cheap thrills.

the villan is yet to reaveal himself
the hero is barely a child

take this.

i wove it for my mother before i remembered who she was. her shoulders seem so small these days. i can't tell if she's really shrinking or if the light does strange things to my eyes.

you look just like her memory
in fact you look
just like me

for the longest night

We made it;

some of us on our knees with cracked palms and grazed knuckles. Some of us with suitcases strewn across the land. Some of us nursing tender hearts and throbbing heads and screaming infants (real and imagined).

Leaning into the precipice,

On this longest of nights I keep watch with small lanterns. I patrol the perimetre for ghosts. I eat only what I can swallow. Sing lullabies for hours to the passing clouds and challenge my nightmares to another game of truth or dare.

I burn everything
except for the ashes.
I am scarlet and orange
and white.

between cycles

The week ends with a languid stroll and an O shaped mouth.

The dust always settles. We know this. No matter how hard the wind blows. Even tornadoes have quiet days. Even cyclones find time to sleep.

We all start as a soft breeze. As a collision of highs and lows. All things spin in the same direction as the water that sucks down my sink.

Relativity is a rational perspective.

I know that as the sun sends it salutations I will spin again. Agitated as a washing machine. Strung tight as a clothes line.

Proof

Between the dead and the line I am. Weaving creation stories.

There is a god outside the capital. I am in bold and double spaces. I am proof. Reading all my testimonies and finding the things I need to change.

The hard copy is always final. We offset print and destroy the digital.

I am barely managing. The cycle complete

a monday

I function at the extreme ends of times. Frantic
and barely moving.

Executing tasks at point blank range. A crime of passion. I leave my fingerprints everywhere.
I'm cordening off whole areas and collecting small specimens in jars.

Some memento moris
Just to remind me where I am.