brooding tips and vellum amiss
we sit in pools of silken leather
cracked by winter
and salted by the summer leave
we last longer
and change colours
by time's metronome.

sometimes I wonder if my soul is sleeping in a city I've never set foot in
just aspects of my imagination
uncertain of whether this city even exists
or if its a remaining remnant of a real
long misunderstood
and little said beyond a few sentences
with a darkened moon
and a reddish sky
that reflects itself on clouded days inside my mouth
they play music there so quiet no one could hear
not high pitched like a mosquito
but the low rumbling of a plane halfway across the world
almost innate and interior
you can hear it with your body
as the musicians strike at strings so thick they could be the snakes from medusa's own head

this city is anterior
a figurative of a verb used in the past that is assumed to have happened
but not official
and this is where my soul lays?
not chained like a bird
or caged like a lion
but rather wandering
or leaving me wandering
soulless in another realm
incapable of even understanding the despair we clutch at
or the love we thrive from
and in this I believe I am lucky
sinless and free
to escape from the immobility that extreme emotion provides
and fleeing, desiring, reeling in the books that provide them for me.

CULT FOLLOWING
A CULT FORMING
A CULT CLOSING ITS DOORS TO OUTSIDERS
we have each other
and that is how it feels

everytime I move to take a sip of my tea
lemon seeds appear at my lips
This is disconcerting
because
This is how I feel my life is
all sweetness till the last moment
when a nasty seed appears

the sting of a decisive late night mistake
the fear of thinking things through
and making decisions
based on fact
not dream
or glimmers of silver hopes
not even golden in their ideality.

what I will whisper
what I wont
what I am afraid to blurt out
a drunken nightmare
a tipsy dream
want not what I wont
and all of the above I forget
words that can't be excused by a lisp
but lips they work
to form the words
that could say what could destroy this way
this lightness this air
this crisp autumn breath
this woozy winter dried blood nose
this bloom of spring
and birds they sing
and badgers kiss our cheeks
a slip, my lisp, your lips.

You who found me
has uncovered
secrets of forgotten cities-
secret gardens
and entire biospheres we did not know
existed in our oceans.
You who has found me
know more than those who have written my story
that have weaved it
those three fates in a cave
full of prehistoric creations of sulphurous rocks
made into shapes beyond imagination
or the cognition
of all others.
I sit at the bottom like a mermaid hero
like the villain of other tales
it depends on the reader as much as the writer
I would not lightly call myself a treasure-
other than the erotic kind
that I know has crossed most people's minds.