Log caught fire
Slim tiny shards of bark
Spark and then crackle liberating flame
Lips extend corners rise
The flame is starting to consolidate
darkish evidence of carbonized wood underneath
before the teeth became exposed a similar darkness
Joy is hot and needs to be felt
The red ember starts chomping into the wood
The full smile burning into the witness
attraction is warm and inviting
smokey and well stoked
We prepared the food
And kept the fires going
friends used past affections like ovens
I used my own past love for a bonfire
Reigniting it in a declaration
Stoking my heart as if it were the hearth
The fire grew and grew
Yet the smoke dissipated
I wanted to see a smile as warm as those flames
I wanted to prepare food that would offer nutrition to the soul
The red coals and the white ones cooked the meat and dishes
She turned to me and gave me that smile
A smile that echoed fertility
that renewed faith
that smoothed me out
That said thank you without saying thank you.
The stains of dampness shadow mark the treebark.
It writes a language across the roughness not decipherable.
Describing how the slow growth of things can claim effortlessly.
Into long cracked lines of bark, the infiltration has written.
It writes of the nature of the earth and all creatures in their movement.
Of long times in the glory of excess
and long times in the throes of desperate lack.
Of the cumulatory effect of a million days.
Each one embedded somewhere into the tree bark,
like a decent flick of ink.
To become a book written in dampness, moss and lichen.
A silent onomatopeia etched into the trunk.
Appearing and disappearing like timid seasons.
A manifestation of mystical magic.
A waning affection.
the blue door
wrestling yourself into reality
It's locked bolted from the noble street
A street that doesn't want to know
I cannot see your face
The door is all I see
Facing the road
Keeping it's contents hidden
The street indifferent
concerning itself with pedestrians and traffic
She's a tower One I need to climb. But short and long hair. Wrap unstill. Proclaiming herself in the way she angles hips.
Outcompeting the other girls.
Pushing them back to the starting lines.
Sprinting up into the fire of the energy we seek!
You might see a spark.
Might want more than just a warmup.
See me smooth as carpet wrapping around your brick.
See me steel through you, hardened tragic surgery.
The infrastructure of love.
Pull on the heart strings.
Silent seduction. flirt yourself into me magnifying appeal.
She's a tower
A strong repunzel
Hair smooth out of the window sill.
Outcompeting the girls bamboozling the boys.
Will you be my confusion, hello, good bye...
Forget about me.
But she's so smooth like the carpet want's to play.
But she made a rooftop with the things she says.
A little unsure a bit potential pain.
Those others closed up at the last minutes
Open and visceral I cast my own spell.
Divided divinely by those hot angles on your hips.
I aim myself toward and become a new man.
A puppet rising after cutting his own lines.
Using them to the scale the oversized bricks of your tower.
So that I might carry you off before the pretenders arrive.
Anwen is someone who doesn’t demand attention but draws it anyway. She moves calmly, speaks with care, and seems to notice things others miss.
Metals was pushed into the gum
The tooth was was already half broken
The pliers came out and rushed it from every angle
Metallic pain drifted down the root of the tooth
It wedged and it bled
Bending broken steel in my mouth
it stung with hot agony that confused the senses
With sharp stabs that hit deep intot he jaw
I broke there in the operatory chair
I was the mess spat into the sink
Just blood and tears and exhaustion
Just a shivering sniveling human needer
On that road the hobbyist used a screw driver to pull the circular drillbit from the tarmac.
He held it up and marvelled at it, the teeth in it, how the steel shimmered in the neverlight.
He spoke about how he would add it to his personal collection.
The grey dull road was deaf to his words and just lay there soaking up tame neverlight.
Somewhere not far a brook inhabited a ditch.
Like a child does a playground.
For all of it's insistance it couldn't reach the roadside.
The overgrown couchgrass waved to the tarmac where the hobbyist stood bewildered with the drillbit.
The tarmac was blind, the hobbyist was stuck in time, neither here in this reality, nor in the other.
Only partially aware of the tides of air coming in from the pastures and forests.
He threw the drillbit in the air, the way a child might a ball.
The thing spun as if on command, a disco ball of mesmerizining cutting power.
A thousand truck carcasses littered the end of the road.
Somehow how more useful now as rotten metal soaking in the neverlight.
Ever in prayer facing the hobbyist looking for approval, dead inside.
A realm beyond a realm, a blessing misunderstood.
