Invasive

I've said it before and I will say it again.

Spread the word, one step away form hysteria.

Decide who you are, bunch up in a corner.

Build an electrical charge: release the word.

One person on their own and the rest pointing.

I am a legion.

One place in your head and another in your body.

Awoke asleep and slept awake.

I have my eyes open all of the time,

it seems that there is light without respite;

like the radiance from a body that is burning.

A combustion of thought.

Projectile language on a dark staircase.

Arms in the walls.

Waiting.

Turning back the wheel.

There is so little that makes sense and so a little more chaos

could only confuse.

I came here uninvited, I will stay at my own pleasure, leave when I choose.

Feather Mammy - A La Deriva

Legs burning, full of pins; he felt without focus, surrounded by light. There was a tree at his back, solid and magnificent. He had been crouching at its base for some time, he thought. Long enough for the blood to leave his feet and a place to form, a hollow pressed into his back between shoulder-blade and spine where it met the bark. He picked up a leaf from the ground next to his feet and held it up towards a bright place where the sun must be. The veins spread out across its surface like a river delta and between them glowed a deep green. His head was full of noise, of words, sibilance and susurration; thoughts drifted past, turning over slowly, flashing momentarily, dazzling. Water rolled off his head from amongst his hair and disappeared into the cotton shirt at his shoulders. He wasn't sure if it had rained or not. Perhaps he swam. Yes, that was it. He had run, throwing his clothes off and his body forwards into rolling roaring surf. A wave had picked him up and turned him over, pushing his face into stones and shells, pushing the breath out of his lungs. There was a taste of blood in his mouth now from nose or tongue, and salt crystallizing on his brow. He let the leaf fall and watched as it span slowly around the axis of its stalk. The passage of the leaf through the air, its graceful descent, carried with it a veil of unconsciousness. As its saw toothed edge touched earth his eyelashes brushed together.

The Grass Was Dry

Hay pressed into the book of summer
but reading it now
hard to believe
a fiction in blades.

The grass here died and lies
indisposed upon the earth
in a suspended reality
between growth and
decomposition.

This made frame looks down
as if from a great height,
from heaven perhaps,
where judgements are made
because in hell no one cares
enough.

Hay to hay and
grasses to grasses
life moves fast and
nothing lasts
this grass is dry and
pressed flat so add water
and stand back.