My home is a chasm

- my windows are floors,
the ceilings are lava,
my curtains are doors
whose hinges are oiled
with intrigue and dread
The folds of the fabric
- wooden and lead.

That isn’t right!
Those words don’t count.
You got that wrong.
You should have known.

It’s Black and White!
Those words don’t count.
You got that wrong.
You should have known.

you said, unspoken, ’leave it be!
apparently.
I didn’t know
I didn’t hear
I trusted ink. I can see it.

The rules rules rules. I’ve broken them. They aren’t mine.
I don’t deserve gravity.

I’m floating now. Please catch me.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
But what if the beholders do not see? What then?

Perhaps we dress in pretty things
sometimes
to make ourselves feel (practice preceding)
what we should not need to dress for.

As if you mean to flirt with magpies;
You layer gilt and sparkle
thinking your own jewellery has
been utterly consumed.

It is not true.

What fun am I having
or am I having
You tear off the perfect coat and
sensibly fold it up, neatly, and clutch it
to your chest
Sensibly you say, and firmly;
Go and have some fun!
Go and shop. Don’t settle for this old thing and worn
It’s not what you really want at all. It’s not.

So I shiver. And then obedient
walk about the windows which do
promise marvellous deals in red exclamation;
looking for you.

I think girls are supposed to like shopping
But all these others pinch me or hang
careless of my shape.
Still, I shall pretend to have fun because
you think you are being generous.

25 02 04

Twisting logic of conscious pardon
anger lodged here, to be dispensed measuredly.
It become distilled and not evaporated in tears as before.
This machine of me re-designed. Prevents leakage!
function. I do, and am, of circumstance and others blind
weakness.
That evil cancer stopped now by tourniquet but the blood
both divided still fights and presses to flow. Free and dilute;
tension with determined sense along.
My gentle patient soul stretched taut
I measure