Untitled Prose

1.

Hair falls like water from a broken piano, curling, mellifluous tresses which blanket her raindrop shoulders; milk in the morning, the sound of bowls, trees falling, I am drowning, dreaming.

The mist of a thousand teardrops float like dust dying, the world spins and I become dizzy. Her voice drips from the cusp of her pinkish lips; it is not time, it is timelessness, excrescent, blooming, earths barren womb.


-A bovine man, a woman with a slow cunt, it is oil we want, lulling and liquid.

She glows beneath a beating light and I dote, humming for the froth of her thighs.

It is April, it is morning, my eyes are open.

2.

The tangerine blossoms then folds. Doused of the dripping moon, the sky’s tears falling, endlessly we drove.

Without hope we are poignant, miss nothing of what we have known.

Like lilacs bent at the knee I whisper into her ear, ‘it is the ballad of my heart which will break your never-ending waves.’

3.

Singing, plucking, her reverberating touch fills my pores with subtle joy. It is not love, it is loving. Irises kiss, sheltered by a quandary of richly scented hair.

Always am I nonplussed, the girl, the woman, you are a persimmon if anything and I am verbose when I should just be pensive; a boy in love with a girl.

Life in the morning, life is matutinal.

As eyelids fall, lids are just the beginning; as shoes are for feet, so are the sheets pulled, thrown- the end is always insignificant, to think that a word can represent a thought, to be alive in the dream, dreaming dumb dreams.

4.

Of Sunday mornings when the teapot sang of peaches. In bed, the sibilant kettle from above says ready, she saunters lazily as I pour the tea bedside next to her shapely legs.

I glance upon the window and the children glisten beneath the sun, gleaning magnificent clouds of wonder, ivories parted, the scent of spring fragrant distends, ripples, pushing blades of grass towards the orange peels kneeling.

I met her furled, floating, brine and of the ocean- a child of September.

5.

The poet dead, spilt milk and draw the curtains.

Dear, the sun, your tender cup his curve like porcelain, I pinch her pincushion bottom. Puss puss I say, why aren’t you purring?

A woman is a woman but not all women are you; it is Autumn in my heart- ‘O! Glorious day!’ sang my mother when she brought me into this world, life glistens for a moment, glitters, attuned only in love.

6.

I am by no means a comely man; I am a man rather, sadly.

The bemusing ballet of weightless smoke lying like disintegrated clouds, the sun is gone, the room is dead dark.

A perpetual moment of creation and conviction.

I have seen so many eyelids, eyes smile, our eyes; always will we argue.

It is December. He says of the children, of the snow falling, life is more honest atop the water; with grace do I glide atop that which is always changing.

But to dream boys is to know your dreaming- silly pruned Jews, Christians, the radiator still spouting steam.