Little Mumbles

yellow. splinters. split.
sideways. salty. spire.
tickets clang nonsense
streams of conscious.
you are a yellow bee
split. spit. stung. and dancing.
if this was a song
there would thread. meaning. 
being told. with bite.
in the breath.
losing old, cold. rain
falls. failing. fingers.

She should not be standing there
Waiting. The doe upon the pasture.
Today he goes out hunting.

The dogs are ready, and all
The guns polished. Even the boots
Have been scrubbed to look

Like new. They set off happy,
With almost youthful excitement.
They will bring back many

Birds today and the women
Will sigh at their brave efforts,
And cook will be glad

Of the extra meat. The doe
Stands patiently in a clearing
Shafted with sunlight.

He sees her bathing, where,
All the light is falling.
And he is struck, momentarily,

By an overwhelming sense of awe.
Almost, he falters. She turns,
Knowing, she looks at him

And meets his gaze. Those
Naked eyes will surely mean
The death of previous desire.

The movement raced
Through every vein,
Alive with liquid feeling.
The floorboards up and lifted
Supporting pillars, and we
Responded to the charge.
We angled further through
The music, filled with light.
We moved with fluid reverence
Carefree of any darkness.
We strove to stand up taller,
To dance lighter in the wind.
We let loose, our bodies swaying
Like perfect choral singers
Catching sublime to every sound.

We were thrown, like stars,
Across the heavens, sparkling
Glad across the distance.
Our hair ran out behind us

Leaving trails of waving patterns
Marking out our travels. We were
Happy eating ice-cream, thinking
Summer had no end, while

We were licking lips and twisting
Fingers. We stood up on the table
And ran across the benches,
Leaping from each one. We were

Bound to our own happiness,
Only knowing it would end.

The stars fell, the earth titled,
The ocean swallowed us as it ran.
We were bound together, calcified.
We were oysters in our shells.

Protandric, we released ourselves
into the water, covered in cuts,
from holding the shredded parts
at the edges of our shells.

Pumping colourless blood
through all parts of the body,
we drew water in our gills, until
we fell, clattering to the ground.

lincolnneal:

you speak
strangely. it’s ok.
i type funny. your
can
writes maybe
several ways
which voices
make laughs or maybe
i witch strangely

attached to a shell.
but we both
talk funny through
a string

Footprints stretched forward

in an echo that rings

with blue ink. Spread

into circles that dance

at the end of the pen point.

@Drowned in the Inkwell

You are one mouth

wide open in wonder,

one hydrogen for satellite eyes.

The ice stings as it falls

over a perfect world.

You are waiting for a sound,

as the lamp post flickers.

You are alone;

nostrils inhaling icicles.

All thoughts have left you

to the cold. You feel it

in your palms, watching you

leave footprints in the snow.

Every muscle aching - stretched out like a wet rag spun round to squeeze out the water. Limbs heavy with exhaustion, grumpy from dancing - throwing myself at the beat.

Don’t make me explain

one more time

why i don’t shave my legs.

Let me remind you

boys don’t do it.

Don’t tell me its unhygienic.

Don’t make me 

stand here before you

self-objectifying; defending

my right to make this choice,

and the difficulty

living up to it.

It isn’t, like you say,

a decision 

about which side of the fence

to sit on,

because 

in your eyes

there isn’t a choice

between shaving and not shaving:

a woman 

who doesn’t shave

isn’t a woman at all.

     It’s an ocean

I am swimming

  for days

     in my bed

 lying wait

remembering

things that haven’t come yet,

  bending lines

     to fit this tune

       with a melody

     I have found yet. 

Every inch of dirt stained jean, pockets stuff with wallet and phone. His feet look so small in Vans. Stepping on the train, his pecks poking through his shirt. Light blond hairs on his arms. His bicep against the pole, iPod in hand. Leather bracelets: woven, flat.