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i feel better tonight than i have in awhile

might catch some restful sleep

which aint really my style

maybe stay present tomorrow

do a bit of upkeep

using energy i dont have to borrow

get an early start and visit the grove

with the hidden lilies

where the fairies smoke

fill my hands with water from the memorial pump

have a sip and a splash

and a sit on a stump

deep breath deep breaths

and a knowing exhale

life can be less difficult

if i dont let it go stale

anoxfordscribbler

In which we take tea together; one cup left unfilled in front of an empty seat.

In which I trace patterns on skin; drawing the border of the indent you leave behind.

In which I turn toward you laughing; only to hear the same cadence echoing back.

In which I lean into your warmth; falling through the chill, through the space entirely. In which I learn how you love; in which I miss its sharpness, pressed to my throat.

my door is open

always

pathetically

shamelessly open

to you

love-ardour-anarchism

“If you deny any affinity with another person or kind of person, if you declare it to be wholly different from yourself—as men have done to women, and class has done to class, and nation has done to nation—you may hate it, or deify it, but in either case you have denied its spiritual equality, and its human reality. You have made it into a thing, to which the only possible relationship is a power relationship. And thus you have fatally impoverished your own reality.” Ursula K. Le Guin "American SF and The Other" in Science-Fiction Studies 7, 1975.

#frog friday

ya babe got them outsider blues

a hound of sorts

tracking chaos for sport

adapting my humors

adjusting my course

shaped by ideas

and not the ideal

pragmatic and happy

til all was revealed

still

i marched forward

on a delicate leash

until all at once

the hound was released

now ideas arent good enough

and little puppy says ruff ruff ruff

but

onward we trudged

repeat repeat

check the transcript

check the receipt

i asked one thing

dont cross this line

then i forgave it

a thousand times

with your tag on my collar

i made myself smaller

i kept up the pace

but it was decided without me

that it was a race

...and the leash was now staked in the ground

bein ya babe was the only thing around

upon reading the news

in my soberest state

i got them outsider blues

and you cursed my name

under your breath

and in my face

i just focused on your monolog

well... cuz

everybody loves a fuckin dog

#t rex

apologies pulse in my throat

little rat hearts

desperate

pumping adrenaline

attempting to revive remaining flesh

i feel the claws searching for purchase

for escape

i swallow them down forcefully

and keep them for myself

im the one who uses them

intimate secretaries raise their hands

and swallow the keys

amid the smoke

the secrets of the linear timeline

cause and effect

lost forever to the fires

that once defended the castle

and now

facilitate the siege

the stagnation of remainder

i was

walking

past a yard sale

with some sweet mid century mod chairs

the espers of deco

spat across them

by way of a shiny

lime green

coarse grain fabric

cross the backrest

and

beneath your bitty butt

i thought of you

and your straightish lines

the evolution of your kiss

of our mixture

and the resulting tea

still bitter after all those lumps

Frida is back after a long hiatus.

❤️‍🔥💛💛💛❤️‍🔥💛

#flower crown

anoxfordscribbler

Fragrance of Dark Coffee

There is a man and he is sat at the window thinking about the night and how the night itself is thinking about love. They are both sat stagnant and gazing at each other; one with a million, million eyes. The man smokes a cheap cigarette as a red candle burns slowly to the base of the holder. The night is cold in its observation – how it watches the man who watches each passing car, each tensed-up person half-running to escape the rain. He breathes out a plume of smoke that the night could imagine were clouds. Clouds alike its clouds that move so aimlessly, as if lost. The man plays some jazz from a second-hand radio and sets down at his desk, replacing cigarette with pen; trying to craft some new phrase about how the night is his mother out at sea. The night yawns into the wind as it lulls itself to sleep.