Thursday, 18 May 2017


There's a gnashing design fault in every waiting room painted orange, with made safe furniture that kind of upholstery which never indents however many of us sit and wait. Until I hear my ancient voice saying the fox is as English as the huntsman. Weird skin sensations take charcoal to my face and arms and legs something that could hurt. Glitter reflects sun but it's the heat I want to absorb, black from grave robbing and save it as cemetery earth under my nails for when the night gets cold. Controlled environments like waiting rooms never consider the density of who came and left before being seen, relieved the easy for authority chair looks undented. I am truly relieved that in reality I am tiny, microscopic, and my sudden growth with feelings of such height until vertigo swings at ambition. So she reaches for the bottle that says small and her tongue divides until fern-like she charms liquids of shade and grit, speaking of the old religion through her lips and into the universe that really is just the earth in the end. The best ambition is to evolve into that caterpillar who has grown eyes like a snake only to scare the predator. Or to even try and imitate butterflies with their colours too far so humans should pay the sky in some way just to look at them. But returning to the earth I might die in the waiting room, which to be more accurate would be decorated like a concentration camp, not a nursery, before my name is called for space travel. Though if death can happen from a natural internal explosion firing meat to feed the birds is surely better than leaving as a few crushed feathers and a stain on the road. But for now a synthetic weave serves as my waiting room. Every second image is static silvery mauve, though even my description sounds more real than I remember valleys curving into silky-ester animated like opals that aren't. Some distance from the sea, with its molecular advantage of movement, human poly-forms adorn the slight shift of a sun field working at the mechanism of forever. We should organise some action from our incubus heat, honestly in shadow of one true master melting us into the earth. All of them, or are they us, have channels so one is like a limb or feeling of the other. My sense of this primal chain was so defined I couldn't imagine he or she parting from their passive orgy until at night or cold someone felt a lead pull them away to in darkness where I couldn't see who was there, and they can't either, we can all be whatever we want by tomorrow we'll remember legends. Now you've all seen too much. From inside my reverse burka sunburn whispers to a private act of exhibitionism manufactured for sale when the show's over. It's the same every time, not over, I just need to move the waiting room or me. The membrane merges with a tear, I'm half through faster than anything I need to understand falls from the sun. The journey was just where to hang the scene, do I have to call this anything like fire is my new harness. He said only if you feed her, yes I can feed, until the sun's feathers say danger or move on. Or will I see words as sounds from lines of shapes in my book that I really could throw to the flames. Who am I to even try and work black twisting shapes, holding still a pale line on white, into a voice while the flames shimmer signals of colour. Pincers from the inner jaws of a furnace suck my tongue into shapes called words. Now what this really is about is the return of something to the crazed minarets, dancing at earth level, transforming wood to ashes as my sacrifice melts to the underworld waiting room where flames hang from the sky. It's a very fine division maybe made of ice so the two fires won't meet. Stitches crack the membrane over and over. It's women's work so nothing seeps through, but this would be so much more impressive if I'd blackened my face today so the journey of my tears pattern my face. Heat spells reach out further not just on my tongue, now I do crucifixion my hands stretch to breath in more heat and flutter words into the flames as off-colour slabs of estuary skies weigh two books to the earth, waiting rooms on every blank page. The circle warps and fire dances to me as music for a spell, I should be graceful and know my place but what this really is about is exchange. Standing like the golden section in the tropics of England, sun light easing the channels, my key between two books on the earth. Fire cracks apart the threads of my voice and opens in heaving measures of day into night. Deep shadow is spreading blue-black over the spectrum, surely listeners only hear me as a shape with the fire and sun playing my shadow from my control and into dancing anti-flames, vibing planes of sound from a stage near but not on my island. Relax to the responsibility isn't all mine, each island is just another waiting room for light to leap from and levitate human poly-forms into vacant nights tree gateway when the penalty for grave robbing is high. Listen for the fallout of petals to land.