Is it common sense to put in your two cents? Drop lyrical bombs and philosophical songs Waiting for the machine to vend another bend In the resolution paper But of course, there is just never progress with the Congress And I must digress, the system Is inherently flawed We saw Them build a wire fence The new Lochness No water for the barter
Please appoint, anther world leader Someone freer Made with love, is that undreamed of?
I hung in my four poster bed suspended from a mangrove Drinking my tea that reminds me of coffee Watching the giant squids glide graciously under the soft skin of clear blue waves More like teal, releasing soap bubbles into the air, each with a firefly trapped inside And then it was dusk, the sky beginning to fill with soft coloured feathers oft on the horizon The fisherman cast out his hook to fetch the moon And up and up it rose, blooming into a shower of countless pearls The mermaids, birthed from the pads of giant squid tentacles, leap into the air to grab them Make underwater soup, Italian wedding For the wedding, of my four poster bed and I.
Raise my arms to drop my right to arms Second amendment Should be amended He contended, fronted By cold fronts, staring stunts, remarks blunt Sword unsharpened, pen cap opened He writes With love love love Message from above
Peel back the skin. Cut into the flesh. Then you can reveal the avocado stone whole. That’s what she told me. A secret was etched into its cobalt surface, glistening as it was with promise of adventure. However, our story was over before first tea. Such things are written. It is where I do not know.
The first stone was about a princess and her avocado stone. Her avocado stone was within her and without her. Not unlike a sort of kidney stone, this one caused her all sorts of insufferable pains. No matter how high she stacked her mattresses, the pain in her back could not be erased. She missed dreaming but then again, that was not a good time for dreamers. It seems as if it never was.
She lived the high life, amongst the clouds. The clouds were fabricated by her father’s refrain. He sang once every full moon and his resounding boom was enough to form the pipedream clouds that were the makeup of his land. She didn’t like that he claimed ownership to the clouds. It did not feel right. She missed her friends that were closer to earth. The princess would use her conch every night to call her friends who lived in the sea. The sound of ocean soothed her and gave her solace to the pain in her back.
One evening the nameless princess stacked her mattresses so high she was on the brim of the atmosphere. Lying on her back, she watched the stars chase each other across the universe. She contemplated constellations and thumbed her nose at the moon. And it was in that lucid moment that she realized the pain was not in her back but in her heart, that it was not the damnable avocado stone immovable on her cloud but the damnable avocado stone within her.
That was the first stone.
The second had alabaster finesse, pearly white under its light brown coat. As if illuminated by candlelight from the inside, Hitchcock technique. It was toasted by the Egyptian sun, pure and encased in green flesh. She said, tell me, what happened next? We were lost in a delirium, high on chocolate infused with chili, in love with the shape of endives and the purity of obsidian. I told him my stories. He told me his. We reversed roles. He the bear and I the soft-skinned goddess. That’s what he told me.
The slope of your shape entices even the most romantic of writers. These writers cannot help but type even the more furiously, projectile romance on the blank page. You pull at their heartstrings, making cellists look weak and concertos seem underwhelmed. It is your plain Jane, commonplace beauty that is most striking of all. Living in the new times, there is still something ancient about your completion. Your class. Your love. Your serifs.