I’ve been telling a story with leaves and flowers I pressed the life out of. I’ve been telling a story about blue blood, ballerinas, and balls. The story has many climaxes, like a woman with her lover who is with the beat of her heart. My heart is a snare drum, making rickety rock music and frightful calls to war with the past. I don’t allow children to listen to my story and neither should you. How grace bred with elegance until the world, fat with starlight, burst and space filled with shimmering crystals of silence. My heart, a dirty and dangerous little thing, leapt from a shadow into the great knowing.
Day: October 12, 2025
We Will Never Reap
Unattended sparrows sow the fields with lavender. The fragrance betrays the eroticism of the fluffy clouds, looking down like a lover on a world that doesn’t know it’s asleep. When through the pearlescent gates the ocean begins to pour like a spilled drink, I made a raft from my studio desk, with an umbrella for a roof. Beneath the waves, Leviathan with centuries of teeth and an appetite for the twisted. The lavender will wash away. The warped odor of regrettable flesh will be all that is left. I sail to a rippled shore covered in sunbathing dreams.
Miniature Moon 