This become a dead-space yet? I live in a house without internet. I’m writing on paper. [that’s the update.]
–
Swannanoa, sweet SwannaNowhere, Iam Here. I live in a small house sweltering in sweaty grasses.
I live
in some small house
completed now with seven other children and a chorus of flies:
their teensy iridescence crashing together continuously
making music
I’ve grown used to
even when it falls on the skin of my shoulders
and rouses me
in morning.
When I get up, I move lengthwise
making my muscles unkink and grow slender. I flick my toes.
When I walk out into the world after asleep,
my naked skin greets the air. I reach down and notice my pubic hair’s grown coarse
in its forest of thickness
I’ve allowed to flow free for such time now. Never again to disband it
without incredibly good reason.
–
Fig’s in the living room, positioned somewhere ocean-wise, on our giant rug of the globe.
he covers world in art
collage-fixins and papers strewn allover
his addiction. His schizophrenia
and the reduction of his pills
forcing him to seek refuge
in all these genitalia
he constantly creates.
skeleton-penis-flaming vagina. “Everything goes back to birth,”
he’s wise so beyond, that it surprises me when he clings to my words
until I realize I must be careful what I say
around a searching soul so willing to change.
Fig, you’re okay. And I love to get high with you
off mullen, mugwort, herbs,
wrapped like a delicacy
inhaled
and expelled innocence laughter.
The medicines I’ve got to take to get myself to sleep
in that hot smelly room of human
on all nights i could tear in for
hours.
–
The small house is white, and it’s really false as a house afterall.
Nothing but some crude shelter,
outside posing as in.
It sounds like music
and feels as restless as creative youth.
and outside, which is inside, is always singing. It’s even in our skin,
raised little red bumps
we can’t help but itch until they bleed.
I take a pen to them,
making stars,
galactic scenes,
connecting sense out of chaos;
the creatures I killed so swift with the flick of my hand,
my own blood smearing there, along with that of how many others? It’s a deep orange pekoe
resting in a streak, residual lastings for as long as my next shower,
which occurs maybe in ten days or so.
Showering is a big event in small house. and Clothes can’t contain
the freedom we feel
in a first small house, it’s loft full of arts, words, crushed cans and stolen go(o)d(lines)s.
-0
Emma. has hair like a marigold
and the body of a muse,
renaissance painting.
Her ‘grandpa-ass’ like porcelain gel, speckled. flatly swishing against her frocks, all flowered
she is covered in flowers.
Emma’s like soil, bathed in flowers,
the intricacies of the root systems finding their coils and clings
in ways impossible to predict.
flowers grow from her demure smile
and the way she knows herself but doesn’t know she knows herself
dousing in wine (“get me the burgundy”) and seeing four faces.
Her skin sprouts faery wings
and smatters in stars
when it’s courageous enough to face the sun.
Emma. A drawn-by, strung-out tangle of golding copper,
lusting for melancholic passion and learning to pick on through
pluck on by
her breathy voice
is as endearing
as the red little pimples in her crack
and the way her teeth line up
to show off the piercing just topping her chin.
A cherry
on her icing (for she’s a cupcake garden, after all.
she;ll go soon. And be gone. And the small house willn’t be similar.
longer.
–
–
V'Artichoke 