Random

Beauty
Moonlight:
The moon starved moth sat on the moon eaten leaf. It chewed. Crystal balls danced in grey pools of its polythene wings. The tree was a faceless guardian, it connected the leaf to the moon, and the moth chewed on. Color was lost in the concubines of its eyes, the reign of gold was eaten by silver .The frenzy was there; the water boiled under the thick spread of moon that buttered it, fluffing away wisps of little drops which the reeds caught in their arms.

Spring:
You spend afternoons hypnotized by yellow, reading a mixed- time fairy tale where the girl dies in the end. You play with paper boats drenched in rain and you run, run like the light in your eyes has found a tunnel to brighten. The old fort is empty, rooms naked with space. Then it all starts, the tiles move a liquid arm under your feet and the storm fills the corner window; the one you used to sing at. Small footsteps press the dry mud into the earth and living skin touches dead debris, it unearths life from scattered beginnings and smiles. The windows open and through filters of maternal love, the baby season cries.

Pain
War:
Marigolds and intestines have the same color. Often when you stare, the white of your pupil reflects the color, you breathe and nothing registers. You touch your best friend’s intestine and want to believe that they are marigolds. Darkness enhances the white of your eyes, and the red in your heart. The dead metal in your hands arises from slumber, death electrocutes someone else’s best friend .He bends over the body, and as he discovers they aren’t marigolds.



Death:
Grandpa, grandpa are you there? I found a lady bird and the mud under the oaks tastes like macaroni and glue. You promised you would show me the silver birch beetles today. Grandpa can you hear me? Mama says you are a burden. What is being a burden? Is being wonderful being a burden? If it is then you are a burden. Dad beat mom up today. Her broken dishes lay in a half circle across her; he just sat on the chair and drank smelly black water. Grandpa what should I do? I don’t like your hands; they are like the salmon dad brought in, cold and quiet. Grandpa what about the tree house? Grandpa…..

Anger
After sex:
Green paint loves falling of the ceiling .I lay stretched in a pool of crap. My body stinks of its fetid refuse; my arms are pieces of undigested excreta, my hair a mass of dried saliva. The palms reflect back the animal. He lies on the side, his victim drained he burps garlic and orange pop. Satisfied and salivating. The stream of sticky bubbles down his primitive jaw shine brighter than me. I try to find my body, it is lost. I try to cry but some how I don’t remember how to. Concealed beneath his flesh is the seed that runs in my blood now. We are stretched over the same rack, only I can feel it though. My mouth tries to stretch my teeth into obedience. The white bed sheets stare. The stains on them are cleaner than me. Their dirt can be washed, mine can’t.