Sunday, August 3, 2014

Storm riders

"Out here we is stoned, immaculate."

Jim Morrison carves an altar out of a grey Sunday and I
am flooded
by colour making my fingers itch, words
piling into stalagmites
pushing for release

Lizard king, slither out now, I
can't focus in the deluge. My
eyes ache for wool's soft tug, I crave
Pattern and rhyme, need to hear
A mosaic of line and shade.

Spattered and bruised and ragged,
Not immaculate,
Not stoned. I need a funnel, a filter, a
Priority system.

When this gladiator war is complete, I will lapse into
re reading cookbooks and knitting books
Lamenting my spare time.

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