Flowers
I think about flowers, a lot.
They’re so alien to our world.
But really, we’re just living in their world.
Observers and thieves.
Animals know a thing or two
He is asleep, stretched out just behind my chair while I work.
To be so unashamedly insistent on being close to someone is something I admire in animals.
A noise downstairs has lifted his head with curiosity, ears pointed and ready.
Now he is gone, without a feeling of guilt for such sudden departure. Another thing I admire in animals.
Dooms day dance
The world is supposed to be ending. Again.
Something about a calendar and numbers, or lack thereof.
If it is true (though I doubt it to be) I hope it all ends with a fit of laughter and you tumbling off the bed like you used to. This time however, I would be joining you.
Tiny fingers
The sky is sending down tiny fingers, poking people on their shoulders and noses.
I can see them leaving spots and stripes on the apartment building opposite my window.
One of the women who lives there doesn’t like these tiny fingers today, for they are tickling her washing on the clothes line, causing her delicates to giggle girlishly.
What was
They were bad times but they were good times.
I look back and it’s easy to say I’m glad it’s over. Cover it with a blanket and tuck it in. Good night part of my life, please never wake up.
But in the fog of what was, there were moments and there were people who were riding the same train as I. We shared words and secrets with such strength and connection it would make an adult blush at the vulnerability of it all.
We may not speak anymore, but I want you to know that you thinned the fog.
A lesson from the moon
The Moon tapped my shoulder through a thin gap in my curtains.
I was startled, because I didn’t know the moon had fingers. Or a hand. Or an arm for that matter. Or that he would want my attention so urgently, it seemed.
“Yes, The Moon?” I asked.
“I can see what you are doing just now” he replied.
“Oh…”
I was sitting crossed legged on my floor, cutting up my life in to small slices, like you would a peach. Each slice glistening and juicy, alarming flesh colors against the pure white of an ordinary dinner plate.
“What a funny thing to do with your life” The Moon commented.
The truth is, I was sad. Sad, restless, confused and thought that if I could see each fragment clearly then perhaps I would be able to piece it all back together somehow and start anew. A fresh piece of fruit to hold in my hands.
The Moon then reached past my shoulder and stole a piece right from the plate. He ate it greedily, juice running down his wrist and arm. Yes, The Moon also has a tongue. He used it to clean the sticky mess with.
“No!” I cried to The Moon.
The Moon’s hand was reaching for more, so I hunched over the plate to protect the remains.
“It’s mine” I said, sheepishly.
“Then enjoy every single slice you foolish girl. It will do you no good just looking at it.” The Moon explained.
He was right. The Moon is always right.
My marbles
My marbles are lost. They’ve rolled under the bed, between my shoes and behind this mornings breakfast bowl. Will I pick them up? I should. But it’s become such a tiresome task, collecting them one by one, delicately tying off the bag in which they reside, only to have someone tug at the draw string slowly, slowly. But I always make the final tug, don’t I? Bringing upon the familiar clack clack clack of glass smacking the floor.
Dodger’s fur
In winter, his fur grew to a healthy length and thickness which inspired you to enjoy with clenched fingers. Fist fulls of black fluff.
Summer time scissors and clippers. Shhnk, shhnk, shhnk would echo throughout the house as mum released him of his hot coat tangled with burrs.
At the end of each of his haircuts we would form the excess fur in to a side-on shape of his body.
The fur from his very last clipping sits in a plastic bag in my mum’s bedroom.
I had a day dream of opening that last bag of fur and forming it in to his shape, the shape materializing in to a real life form. Bringing him back.
Filthy Flora
Mother nature, the madam of a pollen filled whore house.
The shapes you form, the nectar that oozes.
Thrust under our noses, tied with a ribbon, pornographic perfection.
Isobel Pulsford
I remember the handkerchief in my hand, tiny fingers twisting the corners.
The smell of carpet, eucalyptus and wooden building blocks.
You were there 10 years before me, handkerchief in fledgling hands.
It feels like I’m still there in some form, waiting nervously for my mother.
With you a time before, waiting for yours.
Body oddity
My body can be an oddity, the organs play games and swap positions.
Like right now, my stomach is in my chest but my heart is in my stomach.
And then the problem with my brain is that it’s actually in my coat pocket, wrapped in a tissue, being poked by my set of keys.
Garden child
My garden has grown,
now a fat and happy child.
The Purpurea’s flowers,
are the glowing callow cheeks.
It has been raining.
Water logged Nasturtium leaves,
like cups of lime cordial.
