sugarcoat The sugarcoat fairy has a white wand that sprays a sweet powder onto desserts, glass rims, and hard truths. Often followed by the elusive tooth fairy who sneaks in to collect your teeth and the occasional sock.
fingerprint o your voice unlocks cliche ridges, whorls veins, shape disturbs the air in a lover’s mouth vowels of admission quicken, thicken the formant folds deep in throat open and close tremerous sympathetic bones and body lash and tongue
How fast you move, swift Mercury how slowly your myth wanes Appearing to regress backward as you pass in retrograde
Venus relaxes on cowslip wine made from the primrose of youth, when a paused message of love was new
saga “Sorry about that! It’s a monthly saga. She sought help but her insurance might as well be a coupon for 10% off Midol. Her support group changed locations without telling her and, oh no.., I can’t find my wallet—“
“GO!” The clerk said, standing in the rubble. “LEAVE!”
“The term ghosting is an insult to ghosts.”
Cere cut deep into the burning bush, removing dead weight from the dormant plant to stimulate growth in the spring.
“All you can do is treat yourself better than that—care well for yourself—and love comes back. New love.”
It hurts. The expectation. But it was a lipless hypothetical notion. A narrative unspoken neither guides nor implores action to reach that forever ending, where pride belongs to everyone.
plumes resolve plumes of lament $2k in car repairs filigreed wreathy elegy time = money + interest shearing scytheless stylist resolve mends or ends in determination
thoughts like a fresh haircut
“Not everything has to be normalized. You don’t comb the beach looking for the least exceptional rock.” I looked at Ash. “Sorry, the graveyard, seeking unremarkable stones.”
Something like a smile broke through Ash’s stolid face. “Or the bones of sane people.”
I’m a firestarter A ram bored with shame Blood cut off from tight reins Cold hand fumbles matchstick
A shrug-off warms up this sympathy dance Great romance cues the strings, notes like tears drop Douse a flame
classical style from the poetry book, the waywith sun
rose any of a genus (Rosa, family Rosaceae, the rose family) of usually prickly shrubs w/ pinnate leaves and showy flowers having five petals in the wild state but being often double or partly double under cultivation
O rose, o rosa rose, thou art the same tho’ rueful romance oft’ has touched thy name; a passing bitter simmer and a trace of the sweet scent that simile did taste.
What in your properties do awaken, from the stem, the thorns, the leaves, or the scents, analogies of transient emblem? O perfect love, but likened to be kept. The cut keeps the fragrance everlasting, the thorns defend the attempt; trail flower
I follow the bloomed blaze of vast retreat; thy path of five petals, count thy wild beat Fast in the wilder; Gallica scent for me What lovely name? O rose, thou art the same.
The muse left me for a polyamorous cad who grew tired almost immediately. Now our visits are plain-spoken, almost sad. Take place on the ground without wing or abstraction. It is as if we are at a holiday party catching up with a run-down of our accomplishments: How was your year? Well, I’ve been fine. Ron has faced some changes. They rounded up the men and put them in a pecker house where they were trained to work as peckers. He took right to it; world’s oldest profession.
One very lucid day, the muse was going on about Venus being a disco ball. And “Kiss me with the radio on. The waves they bend my favorite song.” It was a complete creative cop-out. I think the muse was trying to look unaffected by the actions of the cad so broadcast this big happy-happy-joy-joy routine. It was hollow.
Here’s hoping the muse will become tender again without needing a twelve-step program or a priest. I will wait and meanwhile try to provide a motivating soundtrack.
A good friend will hold you by your feet and dangle you over the abyss to show you the footholds in the walls. A good friend will suggest a twist or kick for momentum or that you use bat technology to scream yourself off the walls. They’ll send you training tools like books or quotes or brushes; suggest new mediums: bristles dipped in tears, malleable dreams where sleep is a long luxurious blink. How it all works together to flush the sight of shards of memories worked around the nerves in sympathy. The body forgets its process while a good friend refuses your censorship, rides the shame to shamanic exodus. Holds the flashlight while you climb out of the abyss.
from the full moon to the new moon in Libra / Scorpio
Back to the wilder from collapse under stacks of undecayed inorganic matter— It’s all temporary
Underground digs in sentiment trapped Prone to lucid dreaming’s involuntary maw Steps into the yawn of your own pitfall
Take to the trees like Tarzan—climb your agile mind— swing from trust- worthy vines
In his ghast and livid beam, no colors absorb; absence signifies his subject in virous torrents of rayed devastation. I am spared—my eyes cauterized at first sight. Mere ash beside a vacuum, patient for the Spring. Cremains in the kindness of a friend.
cafe I’m a tourist in their cafe where they talk over a good song; Collectors of the medium/ who trade the pain of kids who don’t belong.
It bounces off the reclaimed beams— factoids, brag, gimcrackery; lathers popularity without a sole analogy/ of us
on the island of loneliness
Innocence is a gift—mingled in commitment—of passage.
It has been slain on the altar of infant helplessness sulked in vengeance.
It has been saved by the certainty of power relinquished in permanence.
One day you won’t give your heart to bargainers.
At the corners of their bed sate epic tales of wind, fire, earth, and sky loving the anthropomorphized form of their senses, conjured from the aromatic pyre; a tinder nest, intimacy the tender.
Not even the fires of hell refined worked so well to warm the dead.
She was an accidentalist in one great big song about obedience. More deistic than contrarian, because those small-town panderers just couldn’t be the gatekeepers of divinity. They sounded more like creations of comedy.
“You’re being emotional and kinda paranoid,” Maena said. “Read the situation like a book.”
“Like look at a few words, jump to conclusions, and cry into my pillow?” Cere asked.
Maena smiled. “No, we don’t read books like the words are going to hurt us.”
foreshadow In the afterglow of a gamma-ray burst/ in her hard bright light
His silhouette whistles— harsh foreshadow, blocking the lumen; inkling black hole,
a cold hero’s trope
I sleepwalk & talk expose the bare truth that fear & pain hang from the pall that covers the life of day
Mantle worn by soothsayer who blankets infantile babe
There, in low waves while the mind hides memories, ring words of the dissembler: vestments unpicked to rags