8-uA spider hanging from the ceiling and it climbs out, sideways and black until its still, in air, in silence, and dances of dust. If I think too long my mind breathes crazy, white pints of madness hazy and strewn. I’m thinking like my lesser self, that skeleton under the bed, and its slowly rising. I need someone to love, or more, a mutual form of it, to distract me from this reappearing madness, and I think it could be him. Blue eyes that stare into brown, that lead to the heart and stop it for maybe, seven and a half milliseconds. Enough to keep me awake when I’d rather dream about him. Dreams where we meet in private, behind blari8-u
seventeenIt’s like I can see you through the picture’s inch thick paper, feel your eyes moving and flickering and blinking awake. I keep telling myself I need to think in lines, spectres of form and logic to convince myself you’re not really here, in this room, on my bed, asleep and beautiful. I’m not really thinking about how in a few seconds I’ll go and lie for a while next to your breathing, and I’m not picturing myself tracing the cold air as it curves and bends around the angles of your face, to sit lightly on your skin. No, I’m not thinking at all, because thoughts are for the calm, and I am restless and silentseventeen
the quiet loud of nightIn the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.the quiet loud of night
You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breat
PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations When she woke, a startling bird encased her vision, like a face pressed up too close. At first she thought she was still trapped in sleep, she blinked and blurred the figurine then hoisted herself up. Three centimeters in height, it was shaped by wire with a golden, almost skin like fiber wrapped tightly around its form. The bird, so detailed, she lowered herself to its height and peered at its beady eyes… Its intensely shaped beak, open, waiting. Tiny wings spread out, each feather visible, so real. It was perched, ready to escape. Clare plucked it off the stand and got ready for work.PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations
The golden bir
January 9thIt will be a normal day like today or yesterday:January 9th
Your mother paces, her skin flushes like a pale-gray memory As the man in the preciseness of his forceps plucks the bullet from the backside of a bear. It is as chalk dust blown away and left blank in the reoccurring wind.
Never waking with the morning lark- One man leaves his hands in his pockets, the other chews the black stub of a cigar.
The Winter JarCatch cold in the tar-black jar and leave it on the back shelf for summer.The Winter Jar
Bury the bare arms of the maple and the soft crunch of city salt beneath my feet.
A neighbor in his periwinkle cap mistook me for his wartime friend
If I want to, I will leave here tomorrow and never know another day like this.
Thanks again
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The 4th issue of Soundzine is out now! Do yourself a favour and get listening
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Iness
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