Number five.
Neighbour. My neighbour used to think that she had a pet flying
unicorn. Neighbour. Number six. Umbrella. My neighbour
was very sad when she found out that her imaginary pet flying unicorn wasn't
real; so, I got a horse, stuck an umbrella to its head and gave it to her to
make her feel better. Umbrella. Number seven. Transport.
My neighbour's favourite mode of transport now is via umbrellacorn.
Transport.
Sunday 26 May 2013
Friday 4 January 2013
Fire
Only just green,
the new vine wide-eyedly sprouts,
bursting freely – ready to soak up the world –
from its nursery-for-one.
A tangible shadow,
sculpted by the wake of the
tiny, guiding torch light
that bore the nursery exit,
the vine trails that little flame
that senses which way is forward,
that sweetly burns and turns
only through kindling so dead
that it is unborn, unseen, until
subsumed, in the moment that a
wave peaks, by that luminous speck
before settling freshly aglow amongst
the rest of the now greener flesh
map of countless past frontiers
of revival – a comet’s tail – still
glimmering with always scarcer
reflected rays from the astral bead
up ahead that winds on, following its
kindling path, its pace imperceptibly,
gradually slowing as it unnoticeably
loses its breadth, as though the beats
of its heart have been left behind one
by one and – as mud never knows
thirst – without ever knowing hunger,
but still contendedly depending on
finding its fuel, which, to the left,
is not yet but soon will be prime
and must wait to become green,
while vapour departs the soil below
and the lambent rondure slightly,
steadily, softly recedes into itself
until even the very death that was
there to the left has faded, its echoes
long lost, leaving a blind and ready
silence that now touches then joins
then blazes then flows into the wake,
anointed, green, candescent, resting,
soon to be companioned by that
almost ripe, almost bare blot of
cosmic decay to the right once it
too sheds every last flake, not of
life, but of death; once it returns
to the pure blackness that sits at
the bottom of every one of your
outward breaths.
Only half done...
the new vine wide-eyedly sprouts,
bursting freely – ready to soak up the world –
from its nursery-for-one.
A tangible shadow,
sculpted by the wake of the
tiny, guiding torch light
that bore the nursery exit,
the vine trails that little flame
that senses which way is forward,
that sweetly burns and turns
only through kindling so dead
that it is unborn, unseen, until
subsumed, in the moment that a
wave peaks, by that luminous speck
before settling freshly aglow amongst
the rest of the now greener flesh
map of countless past frontiers
of revival – a comet’s tail – still
glimmering with always scarcer
reflected rays from the astral bead
up ahead that winds on, following its
kindling path, its pace imperceptibly,
gradually slowing as it unnoticeably
loses its breadth, as though the beats
of its heart have been left behind one
by one and – as mud never knows
thirst – without ever knowing hunger,
but still contendedly depending on
finding its fuel, which, to the left,
is not yet but soon will be prime
and must wait to become green,
while vapour departs the soil below
and the lambent rondure slightly,
steadily, softly recedes into itself
until even the very death that was
there to the left has faded, its echoes
long lost, leaving a blind and ready
silence that now touches then joins
then blazes then flows into the wake,
anointed, green, candescent, resting,
soon to be companioned by that
almost ripe, almost bare blot of
cosmic decay to the right once it
too sheds every last flake, not of
life, but of death; once it returns
to the pure blackness that sits at
the bottom of every one of your
outward breaths.
Only half done...
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