writing in the sunThe pages guarded by emerald and goldflick open to be scribbled on by meand while my plots may have wrinkled oldthe buzz of new ideas let me see:I can see back into that world I made,a clump of impossibilities, slightcompared to my others that I now raidto discover new segments for my sight.I'm writing on my sun-baked couch, large, warm,the leather sticks to my face and I'm glued,and I know my rough lacks desired formbut these are just droppings of my thought's food.And so I freeflow through the lines I write,scratching and crossing away as I re-go,till the slab becomes the statue, bold, bright,and of my creation, of what I know.
slit 17The first-Small, shallow, above the collar bone, compass, easy to hide, mistakeable for a fall.Dad ran off to heaven and left me behind, the aftermath piled on too early.I experimented, it was a pain I could control, it helped the tears flow,In it's hurt, in it's bloodflow, in it's strangeness, it was titillating in a way.The second-Small, shallow, other collar bone, scissors, easy to hide, a little rough for just a slip.A month since my last, and the pain was leaving. Then she left too. But she had intent.She abandoned me, didn't bother to try endure this... 'love'... so she walked.I remembered the last, it's masochistic appeal. I tried it. I tried it again. I stopped.The fourth-A little larger, a little deeper, top of the arm, shard, just concealable, unmistakable.After the glass hit the floor and exploded into fragments in an orange juice flame,I picked up a pointy piece and bled the anger at the bitch for her rumours away.I tried it again, the concept got less odd. I
An off colour for flowersRoses are yellow,violets are green.That's after I saw the lovebirdsand threw up my spleen.