alder leaves in still creek, ducks nearby
a door into underwater worlds
with mind of a snail
as the wind doze blow
my sad in festering joyous self
musicality draws life onwards endlessly
the way typing this out is a naturally budding thing
Am I a plant? I wish I was a plant.
I think I am a plant.
reaching towards the sun?
everything downpours eventually
sew this is all just water flowing
melting freezing melting pouring pooling
this is air
makes a sound
music reaches directly into the softcore of my being
dissecting every line
speaks into the centre of my bleating heart
why would i ever stop listening?
being seen. being heard. being truly sound.
that’s the rub.
glut of stories untold untelling
life is beautiful and in puddles
wee fondle and finger the absent image
it still burns
t h in a i r
that familiar gaping feeling
(the one we were borne with)
dampens every crevasse
for ever (giving berth)
wet seeps into dry
wearing a way at the edges
pressing oneself against itself
( m u m i s cr y in g )
forwards r e c ed e s