limerence of longing when apart
i find transit in myself, between
home and not that is somehow familiar.
after hours of funereal soft sofa deaths
throwing wake after wake after wake,
i swear never to kill time, again.
i watch as patch-work bags of floral
navigate brambled voices
and children sleep rubbed from eyes.
while random chimes and alarms fire,
doughnut zombies amble towards chocolate bars,
and studious bun ducks into smoking rooms.
my self-service food court hums
micro-waves and fluorescent while
a trolley fills with smoked eels and gossip.
over silent apple pie,
sondering hairy knuckles, and birthmark face,
a red hat lady giggles.
i loll in the vellichor settled around
my day-dream of phronesis.
BR9 (aka pararosaniline)
A long embrace
where circles coil round
identical points, held
to the mathematics of conjunction
and a gravity of need.
To the enamoured,
in raffia-parched vespers,
a glossolalia of reverence
to unremembered gods.
for love exchanges
root for root
the hidden language
concealed in hearts gloaming
filled with longing.
an effulgent blaze
of two entwined
at marrow's core.
as a balance
the loved and lover.
Rilke on the bedside
in the amative hours of night,
carving fevered idols of our
flesh, and bone, and skin.
Rilke resting by the bedside,
placed there for dreams
gorged on succulent fruits,
tear washed in streams
of grief, now at ease,
shadows cannot tread.
you miss the places you imagine
you miss the places you imagine:
cartographic perspectives with a map at its heart
first flutter, vibrating with the world, maps tell
stories which give their form within.
speaking landscapes on slips of vellum breath
we curate stories to spaces elsewhere.
navigating pinned memories, this cache of past,
fleeting moments caught in rectangles of light,
try to collapse the distance that is between us.
memories composed of space, attach to stories,
where mind embraces globe to fit the user.
ambient chatter evokes an ephemeral palette morphing,
with resonance, this experience of living.
maps back themselves into the heart, haunting space less haunted
while real is muted, reflecting a turn of the world.
time is elegant, churning out the where that burns
this overlap of narrative debris, in this
our world, yet very different.
at the time of this writing,
the ephemeral harvest grows slowly like moss.
placid dose of sweet poison
echoes evocation and refrain.
a heart quavers through an inventory
of thin longing.
ritual acts mend tissue
in answer to affliction.
the family table breaks
bone and bread
in remedy as denial.
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