glam it up
P1010044
Originally uploaded by acrossandtwokisses.in an effort to give this blog a bit of eye-candy.... here's a passion flower, photographed today, quite extraordinary to have this still blooming in late October.
Women Pour with Rain
Rain as a music box,
the story of a lost doll with no eyes,
these are the words you remember:
lazy, hazy, chilly-willy weather ohsinging as if it matters,
raindrops getting so big the size of your tongue,
you are shrinking in sunlight,
shrinking as the music dries.
Listen, the music box is crying:
women pour with rain as they stitch their aprons.
Lots and lots of tiny hammers to knock her up,
little bits of magic getting stuck between notes.
Found bits of dreams in the side-seams,
rain stains on the doll's dress,
left out again, lazy, hazy, silly doll.
Night Sweats of the Misunderstood Man
Infact he had nothing, except fantasy.
Others could hear the swish of his tail, the nails
as they scraped along the ground.
There was something unconvinced about his soul
as if it had an ever-mutating shape
and could walk out and come back at will,
come back with little bits missing,
unhelpful attachments, mangled edges.
He was living for the next drama.
Nothing could be someone and everyone
would one day be very glad to have known him,
but for now he was simply misunderstood.
Seldom a dreamer, but when he did he dreamt
of women who never spoke, the mindless beauty
how she could lap dance all over him.
His life a cruel joke. He bought himself broke.
He ate her raw, just because
and not because it pleased her.
Never his own fault, never sorry,
on, on, to the next..... a dash of smile,
a pulled-in tum, gladly stepping into the next scene,
the ringmaster of his own little circus act.
taping the earth
the composer
makes live calculations
taping the earth
for its beauty
the perimeters of leaves
armfuls of the golden brittle leaf of sunlight
he records the sound
of the earth slowly falling
faced with a distant glancing eye
of winter
the trees sing their hollow songs
so merrily
as if they could fly high away
and the composer he knows
so he pushes his microphone into the earth
and he tries to listen into God
as if he might
find a sound of love
and God calling him in each
flicker of leaf
scratch-scratch
mr composer
sing us a tune
in white noise, in crimson
in a great bonfire of leaves
and became again
tiny birds (in progress_
little birds on string
light of being
pushed, l
looking, hop, skip,
join the branches, twig to twig
to brittle song,
all that is meant
energy of secrets
