(Mon 5th Nov 18, 18:28.) The second whiskey-laced homemade hot chocolate in three days: it is Bonfire Night, after all. I imagine scaling-down to Borrower size, the subject of rogue experimental science and diving into my dark lilac scalloped mug, the intricate embellishments of birds, botanicals and butterflies encircling the inside rim a lullaby mobile… Continue reading Velvet, Amber, Autumn, Umber.
1.56pm. Saturday, the first full day of May's primary bank holiday weekend; I am dreaming of strawberry ice-cream, ruby-studded, demure spoonfuls pooling into pink As my hand warms up stainless steel, blood-heat radiating from neck to head. The European heatwave has everything coloured-in: Coal wisps rise and waft from some neighbouring barbeque Swirl through the… Continue reading Saturday, the 5th of May, 2018.
As buxom, nectar-pregnant grapes rupturing beneath molars My ovaries spitting out infinitesimal pellets, Soaring Ova like mascerated melon seeds. Barely-audible sonic booms splinter hips, A ping-pong match Sharp-shooting in my pelvis, Fallopian tubes twist like strands of hair Doing the Jive around my Index finger.
06:25 The headboard is flushed celestial with gold; Strokes of molten Sun on the wall Wake up weary woodchip.
Strange mix, lyrical contortion of Beaded blossom and blinking infant leaves, Ingenuous, green, Roused reluctant from downy slumber; Shafts of wheat mingled, proud with tender sprouted sprigs. Subdued, harvest light Muted ginger-orangeade, A tall herbal arrangement.
In a blink: I closed my eyes to a world of grey and awoke, open to scenes flecked in green, Like a latent flood, slow-soaked and rising through moss, The colour returned. Negative film cells etched with fine-line nib Pinprick viridity, stippled along wooden seams; Sun-stroked tapestry unfurling before me, The renaissance The Spring. Written… Continue reading “Enfin, Le Printemps.”
Found: Knock-off of a James Joyce classic. Useless. Written on Wednesday, the 11th of April, 2018; a day that feels like the day we travelled to Dublin.
Don't you just love the word 'albóndigas'? It's so much fun to say. Like tumbling over a chair, or rolling, divaricating over little boulders, Tiny, meaty ones Slathered in rich, tomato sauce.
A night so dark, even the heights of trees are blacked-out. My eyes, hollow sockets sucked sore for a vacuum scene.
I turned on my phone today Deciding that I wouldn't, but I did it anyway. For writing up poems, I'm glad I did But, by and large, it's a mistake.