The language of the damp tree

 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.

Blue and bolted

 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

Anwen

 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.

Extraction

 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
 

The hobbyist and the drillbit

 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.

I had to leave my country

 I was born in a garage.
 far over the hill,
 where small streams
 and tree ferns bunched and danced together in the slow breeze

  I made my way over that hill,
down toward the small city,
where I was to live.
There I was reborn into mundane village life.

 With wood and tools and saws,
 hammers and boredom and nails and concrete.
 I walked out of the garage and into a car.
 I painted the car many colors.

 Then became part of the car.
 I opened the car door.
 I walked freely on the footpath,
 where people could see me/

 Where people could analyze me.
 Where people could see the clothes I was wearing,
 the words that I was speaking,
 the gestures that I was making.

 The body language that I couldn't hide.
They judged me and they said all that they could say about who I was.
 
Then I walked into a school,
 and I found myself learning.
Then I walked out of the school and into a job,
 and I found myself working.

Then I walked into a relationship and found myself fucking.
Then I walked out of a relationship and found myself alone.
Then I sought more and more and more and more,
Until I had to leave my country...

The abandoned feasts

We needed the communist to get in
We grabbed Alex he looked communist
go to the front of the line
we need to eat

But the drama queen pushed in
everything went horribly wrong
We lost the privileges we were about to have
As the drama queen could only convince

He didn't look the part and noone bought his appearance
People need their appearances
And so our cards didn't work at the booth
and we had to barter for our food

Turkey invaded the caucases again
As Russia began to implode
They were always ambitious
hyper optimistic

As we traveled down the black sea into their territory
we saw the abandoned feasts locals had left out for the liberators
We too would have stopped and eaten
but God had given the land ample rain as if rewarding the Turks

And so the food was going bad quickly
So we went back to debating who among us looked like a real communist
and if that would really have made a difference in the food line
I myself had stolen the menu, dreaming is better than nothing