Weighted on the x
Weighted on the x
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It’s not that I have a thing for feet
They’re just the part of you closest to me right now
And I have a thing for you
A yellow orchid, or is it hibiscus; Surely not but what
Of it, a yellow flower, say.
Now we have a purple plane, a flat surface, smooth I think with a reflective surface.
In which case is it purple throughout, or is it, in itself purple?
No, let us admit that it is merely mirroring the blue and red hues of a nearby source.
Can’t see it
Let us admit
Where is the yellow flower at this point?
Or the hibiscus…
I do think you are confusing your flowers.
Alright, better. Where is it?
It’s there, poised on the cool surface of the glass, rolling gently to and fro. Roll roll stop. Roll roll stop.
The wind moves it.
The wind would only move it one way. Keep blowing as wind does. Blow it off the glass.
This wind works differently.
I’m beginning to doubt your observational skills.
It blows one way then the other, in turn.
No wind blows in such a way, no natural breeze.
This one does, look.
Hey let go of my hand!
Look, it’s rolling the other way now, I told you.
We’re standing the other side. The flower is still rolling the same way
It’s going to fall off
No it won’t
A clear view of the Swedish flag and
A complete misunderstanding of your opinion
Five centaur kitted out in black and white crowns came dancing in the moonlight, all stirred up and fizzing with glee at the very thought of it.
The onlooking angels were not impressed — tired clapping, dimmed halos
They stayed a while longer, hopeful
watched as garlands of seaweed came to frame the scene then shrugged off
Aching trees, their branches serving no other purpose but to bear witness (passage, time) stood there silent of course until one of them in the smallest hour, once everyone had left, screamed
(It woke us up)
A blue, dark blue indigo sound coloured the air so thickly that its residue remained the next day to stain the wings of a passing moth.
That’s where we were then, that time (you weren’t there) and where we’ll go now (you and I)
Over the field by the river at midnight with the air still warm and the stars out
We will dine on oysters and crack jokes.
This morning I took my youngest (who is fifteen and a half)
to his father’s and
I walked back slowly knowing I will not see him for a month
And while I’m certain he will be loved and cared for and will have laughter in the sun
Of a summer we could only dream of just weeks ago
I miss him in a way that makes me feel dumb
For now there is little wisdom to my years,
Just his absence
And a fittingly nostalgic pale blue sky
That I shall stare at as I sip on tea
Until I manage to turn this heavy ship around from silly voices
and board games and long forest walks with serious talks and pizza dough and tennis, made-up songs and warm milk with honey
And turn my attentions to serious pursuits
of more intellectual worth,
That simply cannot be taken care of
when there are children present to be
Jesus look at your pernicious shift from yellow warbler to game pheasant
Sitting on the desk in plain view just asking for it
Then the bartender asks everyone to leave because there’s an event about to begin and none of us are invited
We could play golf I suppose there’s enough time but it’s just so boring
Rather spend the time in front of the fire sipping your peaty whisky the smell of which turns my stomach by the way
But I won’t say anything untoward
This is all in my head I’m besotted
Go to the other side of the park before the light gets too dim you’ll have to stoop a bit. There’s a sort of small bridge strong iron stout with a trickle of a stream beneath. Green the grey the green and the grey of it are always there. That’s the place anyway it’s sort of a secret. By the lake yeah that’s it the ducks a swan or two just near. Climb down the rocks are damp and grassy. Climb down you can stand up down there. It’s a rectangle shaped box that doesn’t make sense but you know it has purplish transparent edges like it’s made of glass but it’s probably not it’s not cold to the touch. Some kind of plexiglas. The purple shifts to green sometimes the sides are transparent but you can’t see through it you can’t see the floor through it you can just see inside but there’s nothing inside. Go now if you don’t believe me I couldn’t bring it here. You try. You’ll see. It doesn’t like it the box. Park’s closing soon.
For millions of years the aliens had been happy with Earth, which was one of the quieter planets. They had gone about their business farming its silence for as long as they could remember; extracting its inexhaustible calm and shipping it to the rowdier spots of other galaxies. The noise duly muffled, the aliens were able to rest and concentrate their brainpower on more important things, like expansion.
But then the inevitable happened. On a routine decibel-gauging trip, one of the aliens dropped its lunch and before they knew it the place was teeming with lifeforms. It was bearable for a while, the insects and the reptiles didn’t make too much noise, and they couldn’t hear all the stuff in the water but then the apes happened. Oh the apes and their vocal tracts. The quality of the quiet declined sharply, Earth was no longer exploitable.
So the aliens got used to taking the saucer out every now and then and giving the place a good dusting. After a while though the lifeforms showed resistance, so they had to up the doses and even try out a new formula that caused heated debate. It wasn’t a nice product, the lifeforms writhed a lot before dying.
It was quieter though.
The star-gazer entered the room accompanied by a feeling I didn’t recognize
The feeling sensed my bemusement and sang me a breathtaking song
For want of another word I called this feeling love. For want of a better word, because love can be fragile, subject to fear and hope and drawn conclusions
I named it love and opened the gates to my heart that it may be safe. It came inside and curled up.
It sings sometimes in the day.
Sometimes at night.
As the days pass I sense there is something askew in its weight and lustre
So I watch this love closely, for I now suspect it is in fact a nameless thing more exquisite still.