Interregnum

I am the bunion of river thistle, downstream of acorns and fire, scorched by the sun desiring my carbon. I am lost here though buoyant, scattered seed, stamen risen, parched, coloured, bruised and scribing the unutterable, tied by linguistics to familiar torments and acceptable codes, seeking recognition for bravery, finding acceptance in self deprecation and jest. I am the river thistle, a bunion floating upturned, a hedgehog accepting its fate beneath the moon as the darkness falls and the enormity of beasts look down upon me passing from the banks, their taxonomies mapped in vapour. I am the river thistle, downstream to the sea.

For the perfection of that which changes nothing.

One man laughed,
The other man didn't.

The two standing side by side,
Insignificant and standing on a planet,

Surrounded by stars,
Moon, nebulae, galaxy, sun.

One laughed,
The other turned away.

Cut

There is in the dissemination
Of illegal goods,
Prohibited and costly, born of need,
Defined by the subjugations of liberty,
Community and peace
Dividing ever further
The rich and the poor,
Alembics of distortion
That make it available,
Diluted, alluded to
And with an ambiguous integrity,
An illusion
Of credible substance,
Imbibed with suspicion,
Consumed,
Regardless with pleasure.

Black Line

Drawn,
Down,
Across,
To delineate,
Ascribe and emphasise,

My hand transfers intention
For better or worse,
But for whatever reason
You are my autobiography.

Just a few words for what...

The body is:
An outhouse,
Temple,
Church,
Cellar,
Car Park,
Sun,
Whipping Post,
Synapse,
Fruit,
Seed,
Dog,
Monster,
Forest,
Barricade,
Machine,
Painter,
Destroyer,
Index,
Glue Gun,
Lover,
Platform,
Star,
Son,
Sound,
Daughter,
Wavelength,
Time,
Light,
Juicer,
Blender,
Maker,
Ship,
Conduit,
Mirror,
God,
Library,
Sonnet,
Sold.

Armada

Nimbus clouds accumulate
As giant and towering sail ships,
Out in mass at sea,
Sailing along the lines determined
By their government
Of eddies and tides
High above, nudging and caressing
Their quiet communion of entropy.

Moment

I imagine a room of wax,
Filled with burning wicks and I look up to see
An aeroplane soar overhead
Through a clear and spring blue sky
As pregnant teenagers trace their own lines,
Across pebble stones, walking by.