Wait, go back this is not the start.
Disclaimer: Contrary to what I've written, Im not actually 28 today.
She's 28 today and theres butterflies sitting in her hands, petalled flutters beating against palm and shes 28 today.. dont think that its actually the truth though, tiny dots and splashes of colour vivid against black and she's 28 today and her mind's actually working and it lessens oh how it lessens, and it speeds up and there's snapshots bar images of sepia and black, interspersal with leaves and sunlight and the fingers race along the keyboard and the mind.. she's 28 today.
The mind hums and purrs along the tractions, cleaving to steel and moving between rocks fluid in motion, heavy in intent, and purr baby.. why you should purr, against my skin and through my hair.. and she's back folks.. it had to happen sometime.. kiss the flesh and slide tongue along the bone, up the back and bite the neck, to hold in mouth much like mother cat would do.
And would you hum? In baritone measures? To have movement and sound reverberate inside your mouth, swallow the fly and be the spider, to move underground amongst bracken and mud, and what if you were to hold the note and suspend it along gossamer thin threads, soft between lips and pitched at an octave above breaking, and breathe it out into his ear, or perhaps tickle his throat.
And hold the hand in the grip of another, to extend body along his, and possess of his chest and legs with your own, hooked in and pulled tight against and nails and blue.. and purple, black and black.. always black.. fingers and kisses soft and pliant and mouth open under pressure. What if, there was honey, whiskey .. a shot at a time, a man who falls under your spell and winds around your fingers .. a snake to the grand desire. What if that man, were to realise that you could probably go down and under his spell too, one is not without the other and these realities sparkle on stones of which you look.
And yawns start assunder, gathering momentum and pace and the trains run along the tracks and you watch, and watch and watch.. logs apon wooden logs, carted and bound for places unlike these .. the timbuctoos' of the netherworlds where purple grass merges with red rain, and green paint drains in the gutters spilling around and disappearing under the ground and his words resound in the silence, save for tap-tap-soft-tap.
Go then, there are other worlds than these.
And I would want to lay my head down in a pool of sunlight and sleep for a hundred years, I would.. and it would be the grand almighty that you could imagine, and overwrought changes when you awake. I would sleep. And you couldn't stop me, but you could always join me...
And I would welcome it with open arms, and open eyes.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands”;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
She's 28 today and theres butterflies sitting in her hands, petalled flutters beating against palm and shes 28 today.. dont think that its actually the truth though, tiny dots and splashes of colour vivid against black and she's 28 today and her mind's actually working and it lessens oh how it lessens, and it speeds up and there's snapshots bar images of sepia and black, interspersal with leaves and sunlight and the fingers race along the keyboard and the mind.. she's 28 today.
The mind hums and purrs along the tractions, cleaving to steel and moving between rocks fluid in motion, heavy in intent, and purr baby.. why you should purr, against my skin and through my hair.. and she's back folks.. it had to happen sometime.. kiss the flesh and slide tongue along the bone, up the back and bite the neck, to hold in mouth much like mother cat would do.
And would you hum? In baritone measures? To have movement and sound reverberate inside your mouth, swallow the fly and be the spider, to move underground amongst bracken and mud, and what if you were to hold the note and suspend it along gossamer thin threads, soft between lips and pitched at an octave above breaking, and breathe it out into his ear, or perhaps tickle his throat.
And hold the hand in the grip of another, to extend body along his, and possess of his chest and legs with your own, hooked in and pulled tight against and nails and blue.. and purple, black and black.. always black.. fingers and kisses soft and pliant and mouth open under pressure. What if, there was honey, whiskey .. a shot at a time, a man who falls under your spell and winds around your fingers .. a snake to the grand desire. What if that man, were to realise that you could probably go down and under his spell too, one is not without the other and these realities sparkle on stones of which you look.
And yawns start assunder, gathering momentum and pace and the trains run along the tracks and you watch, and watch and watch.. logs apon wooden logs, carted and bound for places unlike these .. the timbuctoos' of the netherworlds where purple grass merges with red rain, and green paint drains in the gutters spilling around and disappearing under the ground and his words resound in the silence, save for tap-tap-soft-tap.
Go then, there are other worlds than these.
And I would want to lay my head down in a pool of sunlight and sleep for a hundred years, I would.. and it would be the grand almighty that you could imagine, and overwrought changes when you awake. I would sleep. And you couldn't stop me, but you could always join me...
And I would welcome it with open arms, and open eyes.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands”;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.