Clickety-ClacketyI know she's begging for his big brown paper bagsand to remain abstinent from his liquor cabinetbecause he's coming on site with newly-sober rednecksand preaching of becoming a sobered-enough roughneck.I know he's tapping his grungy fingertips on tabletopsand sitting in foreign tattoo parlors talking tittery-tatterybecause she disses him with friends 'It's true he's cussedat me for no reason but I'd be lying if I say he ever swore.'When they exchange tit for tattoo he may wring a neck-lace; bags under her eyes beg for him to be the bigger man.But when breakfast settles they won't be neck and neckand she'll be the abstinent teaser
into the sea belowa lock on a door, in a place well-knownthe withered-windy-whisper wood, whickered-flickered candlelightsoft illuminations and hints of dazzling-decked, twin-leafed cardinal vascular canvas.a musical blend of blue and grey.--the lock on a door, in a place well-wornbeneath the melancholy-painted, cerulean-white cliffsand the tri-pigment, undertone-hued skynever can meet with its widow-burned key.singular musical drops unwittingly flyonly to fragment and fallinto the sea below.
the forest breathes for youInhalepoison,exhalelife.
You are not an islandI have been alone. This man is an island.The cliffs of my shoulder bladeshang heavy with grief, ore, suffering.I am draped with the permanence of gravity,So do not believe that you cannot move.Come to me, water babes fully grown,Allow yourself to be swept in salt and ash.Tumble with your brothers into my armsand be at peace, at last, on the shore.I too was once drowned, but I aroseand as the caps melt, all things will erodeFor no man is an island alone.
Sta.sh
