Lacertae

Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.

Little things I remember. 

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. 

Eclipse. Moonshine. 

Pentagram, in a logical place.

Never, ever, even being. 

Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. 

Pain gone. That’s a comfort.

I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. 

Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. 

Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? 

The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time. 

Yours, to breif. 

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Arrowheads, falling asleep

Black wheatgrass is the dark blue storm

Sleeping arrowheads longing to morn

Juice of the corpses 

mortuary sorted 

Standing at the camp

Humors, bile and can’t 

It’s hard to see the souls of dead

Trying and waiting bled

Juice of the corpses 

loose faithful mortals 

Black wheatgrass wearing the hailstorm 

A dress from a maelstrom 

A wasted crop for all

Blue walls, wood doors, shouldn’t call

Shuffling blank space 

Filled out my mind

Maze and stars gaped

Fluid acrid staples 

Bodies fell on Naples 

I’m done trying for empty beds

I’m sure they’ll heat the songs 

Pallid gentle gongs

Such blue walls

I’m sinking in wooden doors

I’m drinking my day 

Winning lace

Crumble the craze

Apples drowned in plague 

Ringing ringing gongs

Shouldn’t call 

Reckless

Full house 

Ace of clubs

In the streets and on the bus

Lightning fired from hearts

Speed frothing at the mouth

Rooted in the deepest pit of the minds 

My word are they crazy?

Hitting, smashing, raging 

Expending dangers like apples thrown against you

One might hurt

They have hillsides full of this 

Rage filled apples

To throw 

Arrived by their inhumanity 

Furiously battled 

Curing all down 

Like helpless cattle

Hated by 

Thinking gone

Nothing but rage 

Till the moment they stop 

Sadness then comes like a 

full stop

Grasshoppers flags

Down by the course dirt lane

The hard presence of the pebbles 

Cutting the hot sun baked grasses 

It’s grasshopper, working to raise the littlest flags 

His tiny little empty empire has hard times

Drought and floods,  growth and death 

They both come as a hash brown 

Sand wasps and birds seek him out

Each with a different evil agenda 

If either are successful his empire ends

Nothing left but his little flags

To be rotted out next flood

Or burned by a forever sun 

Grasshopper has to raise his flags

To bring a mate

Will his family be a reality?

City Ant

Straw sipping ice tea

Forget my feelings, please 

Simple sugars, trembling and fuller
Buy more and search again

Just a city ant

In among many 

Scrabbling every day 
Off-peak vulnerability 

Searching my own, fragile abilities 

Consume my thoughts, actions and associated teas 

Acrid lonelyness insisted

I’m

Bathed

In a statement 

The acrid 

Stink

The acid lonelyness

I’m not like that 

I’m not sure what I am

Bells toll on your words

Acrid days 

On the insisted distance 

I’m lonely. Not one of each of the nine.

I’m not even one of those who have

Or haven’t

Where do I belong? 

Called. Cast. Culled. Places like a spit.

Fires on my skin

The acrid

Arid days

Insidious minds

They, tell, me, to….

Survive.

My acrid lonelyness is insisted

Like a ghostly connection 

I’m not going to be meeting perfection

Misreable kingdom of sticky things that hit

Turning a blind

I’m loneliness

So I wander

Wander and call

Forme kind to answer 

Their are none. None here. 

My acrid lonelyness insisted 

Black letter day

In my infamy 

I neglected my corespondence

I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person 

I’m replying to you, oh black one, for your letter doth take a certain amount of vile. 

I’m not sure, of the trials you have been through. Know that as a wizard I do now only see things as I can get to them. 

Though your quest, and questions are likely to be arduous. I’m sure if you, Vincent, are clear of your intentions. The best may come. Hear are the answers I found. I hope if you find them in good stead:

Fine comes arfter a whole 

White rocks on the seaside

Every unicorn is a blue whale

Chicken feet hurt, as much the Hawks 

Foxes dig, hide their tresures

A smile is worth only your hope

Justice eats her own heart

A katabisis does not need to go downwards

Hate is my favorite song 

Warm bodies were recovered in the fourth forest

Letters sent by air, are not going anywhere 

The light can be

Drops of blood, Searing in the lights

Shunted forward by dry winds, efforts to breathe

Slow rough teeth

Coughing, cups of phlegm, hate

Wishing for the night, respite from heat, but just as dry

Cry, I no longer do that

Ghostly mouthes

Whispers of a long autumn

Gained from a sultry voice

Speaking out in epic airs

A cloud of smoked mouths

Cracking the cackling eternal ether

Torn clothes, flag still waving

But deeply drunk of the well of lies

Do once again, we listen? 

 
 

Glass in a tree

Stabbing exposures 

Inside gowns of naked emotion

Lanterns of blue sick sky

Hanging, by the feet

From another ideas tree

When, tampered by their pleading 

Screens, screams, filling the glass

Ducklings reflections in a lake

Nb: this is not about me. It is my feelings though.

In the day.

It’s spring. They come out at night. Flowering.

The hate from them is like pollen. Like a stench of the past. Because it is death.

Watching these ducklings on the lake I can’t help it. Towering.

Above us it sits. The useless skyline. Technology can’t do it. It’s just keeping a sense of the real life. Clever it was meant.

Those ducklings are happy. Quacking along. Mother keeping them in toe. I think of how many more springs that are coming for me. Cowering.

These nights. These days. The mostly white flowers here are to some pure. Really they are a lot of metaphors. Lies. Pretty lies in my mind. Lament.

In the night.

Is that night? A little sky full of stars? The ducklings are asleep in my hands. Mother on my lap. How can I keep them safe? From the dark? From the monsters? Questions. 

I feed the mouth. This visceral tooth holding flesh attached to me. Sickness in. I’m not going to be hear next spring. I can hear the monsters in my mind. They are close. So close. They. Can try and eat me. But I fight. For my ducklings. For their mother. I’m going to be here as long as I can. For as many of the best things. 

The night. I know they are scratching me as I sleep. I see the scars. I smell them on my clothes. My ducking share safe. Their mother is safe. I will probably eat something more soon. Better food. They will play again. On the lakes surface. Never know that they are on the surface of my mind. Reflecting what is good. Those blessed things.

The sun.

The morning. 

I’m alive still. Monsters gone. How much longer? I’m going to find out. I’m going to know. The ducklings will they miss me? I’m not sure. Even when I’m dead I’m sure to miss them. Like a bells ring.

Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds

Riding the noises in the forest fae

Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds

Strange library, evergreen, oh don’t mind me

Pinky promises flowering essence, cool Ghostly presence

Little strange new dreams of machines, none of them clean 

Rocky colors, shook the duller capture 

Fresh kill to the bones of the Trill, they’re after the carrion fill 

Hot cups, gimlet luck, blue blood, true mud

Flicking others, shadows like cothered muffeled mussel 

Dripping with spite their is the spike, and the hill of the place of the armsted respite 

Besides that their it is, a spokesman for the next new species 

A fairy and a robot, a gathering thought, waves

It’s hand is up, sucking on the teat

Newborn, but not a newcomer

How quickly will it learn? 

Of the spiders, birds, books and nerds? 

Endures, the Perl

Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system 

I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions 

Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes

so I hear they melted down the ox’s

Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views

Ques, cues

I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions 

Curly, your just like them 

Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin

Lonely, like a oyster 

You will blame the system then the others

Never see the ocean of muck you are in

Is that your fualt? Your future?

I’m just a pearl

I’ve got no cleavage to cut with

I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.

I’m part of a potion

Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude 

I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me. 

Palm hand over the thunder

Little flowers of rain 

Quenching the plain of dark grassy soil

Fleshy camphor of vanity we toil

Filling the clephed tease, hemmed and coiled

Little glowing fleas on stems hung royal

Two white buildings

Like a old friend who’s seen the sights

Sitting in a cafe to talk

Winter chills, from the right 

Coats thick and the sanguine coffee strong. Lark at the magpies preparing their best nests.

Some of the paint has crumbled, like that old face you know so well. 

Mossy hair, growing in defiance to the years, spitefully grey.

Clasping the the cup, like a trickle of a stream in a long dry winters night.

Busking death away, his songs are old and full of ttr memories of the places his been. 

It’s a place you go, a place you chat, a place you would call the heart. A city like this, beats like a old trackers farts. It would trundle along, keep going, keep fighting. 

This man is old and cold though. I’m not sure if he will survive the next summers fires. They come all the time now.

I stare at the cup and think how much he’s enjoying it. It’s the last month of winter, and he knows it all to well.

That sanguine coffee is a sign of things to come

  

Ode, to a long lost icy wound

‘Tis true that deemed of scientific melodramas, dictate thine canonization be infact, dubious.

To their swollen pride, and empty scratches of ink, do I cast out such thoughtless tomfoolery.

Thine cosmic muse take thine hand and seek to whisper in thine ear, astrological tendrils of thy alchemists ways.

Thus from formed the hammer and the nail, forming ones knife cutting thine cheese and bread, pouring the blue wine forthcoming of thine like and thine presence in the circle of delights do brought the eldrich extacy that was fortolled in laborious toam. 

Gavelkind doth it comes upon me this harteous gift of thin father, and yet the space to perform this mentorious ritual placates thines spittletos angers and bituminous rage at having to wait until the seventh season of the sun to inherit it.

Only the itch of praises to you give me alibli and the ability to cast such a graven spell, to witch thine is of course  humbly to serve.

And this a spake the words to thine:

East, south, west, north

From land, to port

Free In mind and in spirit

Thank the for all the gifts, I hath been given in this life, but to you I now pray

Cast from me my sins be given a thousand more times their worth

I’d let you seek to send me to the darkest pits of hell if you so wish

But I only wish for the sight of wich you cast from me in my first year of life

From port to land

North, west, south, east 

Three times I say, and three times more, thus I spake it, so it be