If you're Chinese, there is that old fear
that crops up every few years in your conscience
or your dreams

that your sins are being shoring up
in an old spice box, by a toothless woman
smelling of incense

and no cloud-sprung Heaven or chorus
of wassailing angels, bright as trumpets,
awaits you

but a table of four wizened old men

with inscrutable eyes

playing ( Read more... )

:: One word ::

There will be (no) sudden upswings in fortune
There will be (no) silver linings in the grey-limned clouds
When the way is dimmed, trodden leaves and footprints will (not) guide your way
Trust me (not).

Hmm - well, that was a sudden spate of melancholy. Just a little writing update:

Bitching, 2

:: Eventually ::

She stretches her fingers, 
 Unbending them one by one 
 Like prophets after prayer.

Coins flaked copper, not gold,
 In the surrounding ground-cracks, glowing with 
 The sheen of seeds.

She forgets
 That if you spend your seeds before they grow
 You will go hungry.

Eventually.

:: London Rain ::

Dusk brings the sudden lighting of streetlamps, like the appearance of stars.

Soft squelching of shoes, damp against toes.

Umbrellas popping up like mushrooms - black against gray, bobbing in the wind.

I laughed when your umbrella blew off, like a black swan taken wing, but you kissed me quiet.