Flowering
I am two
dimensional, flattened under yellow
paper flowers and breathed over
by dirt. My fingers sprout
in trees, breath fogs
slowly the
morning air. No coffee kettle, I
nestle
in the tea cosy of morning, roses sown
pink and white across
my face.
No gardener will ever
find my roots. They lie twisted &
brown, stretching forever matted
like hair, the hair of someone locked
long ago in an oubliette.
Rats will eat my tuber toes. I am
branching, waving my leaves greenly
in the sky. Sweet voiced though the birds
may be, their
talons dig deep
into my knotted
bones.
I trace tracks in the mud with my
fingers.
Do not come looking for me. I will
sink, milk
warm into the soil
and sleep there
for
ever.
Sea Picnic
Clouds french-kissing over the
harbour. Our hair flutters in moth wings about
our ears. We were made
for love.
We will eat sand witches and make stone castles.
I
will rain on your forehead,
be your
flame-filled dragon.
A calm walk along the beach, you dream
of Rangitoto a hunch-backed
whale, fossilized
encrusted with the green coral
of trees.
I capture your hand like a seagull from the
waves. Hush I say and we dip our mouths in
saline
waters.
So small your head on my knee! So light and hard and
silken sea. Your fingers twine in seagull
feathers 'bout my
own. Our sand witches are melted.
Your eyes reflect
the sun. Come to me once more.
We
should do this more
often.
Waking from Sleep
For you knit the socks of my
eyes, orange and
blue. I feel the glued fibres warm &
jumpy as my eyeball
moves. Stamping my fingers like
movie tickets, R18 and restricted to
a mature
audience. Fat prickly pears half
rotten, sit on the sill as you stroke
my hair.
Wait, ancient pears make a mature
audience.
I am not an
invalid. My heart is R18. My eyes are sown
shut but open widely at night to feed on
the hips of moon. My stamped fingers then rise
to cup
waterfall breasts, don't
look at me with
contempt.
I will wake one night open
eyed, a vampire for hips, will invade, swallow whole
your
sock-knitting fingers. You cannot squeeze the juice out of
my prickly pears.
Technickly
I don't want to possess
anything. I only want a brain of
popcorn, soft & salty and going
bad. I do not want a life
of order.
I want to munch junk, sip now and then
of your Coca Cola lips, then put a plastic
lid on you and leave you in
the fridge.
Our lives are refrigerated. Sometimes I feel
freon moving blue-like in my veins.
Don't leave me here.
I am waiting forever, for rain to flush
the morning sky, clouds in rolls of toilet paper
sun the white warm plastic of a
toilet seat.
Don't leave me here. One taste only, my dear
est. One taste only of your Coca Cola
lips. Long fizzed out and refrigerated in
the freon-veined freezer of
my heart.
