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Easy for Miz Quickly
Finished It’s some kind of dark joke — machines gone mad. Debussy playing on the radio and Peggy Lee singing … “Fever” on my ipad. Debussy finishes before Peggy. Men usually do. Miz Quickly’s “Easy“
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Friday’s Gnomes Forms: “Sijo”
Poetic Form: Sijo: Three lines. Each line varies between 14 and 16 syllables, with the middle line the longest. The first line states a theme, the second line counters it, and the third line resolves the poem. for: Gnomes Notes: Taarab (or tarab) def https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taarab
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Oh Joy for Miz Quickly
Eighty Words About Dust It’s like this — I like dust. Not dusting. I like its single-mindedness. Its persistence. I like the science behind an avalanche of dead skin. A flurry of sloughed debris. It’s desert dry. Dead. Devious. Really. I like to chase it about, snap it, flick it with a cloth. It hides…
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Twiglet #44 “a bare room”
Dear Departed It looks like the outside in here with shadows feasting on dust, on webs and invisible draughts, and dried leaves dancing the floor. A creaking space. Empty. No echoes of your goodbye goodbye goodbye. Twiglet #44 “a bare room”
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In the Dumpster for Miz Quickly
Conflicted these are autumn’s dying days, when my presence is a stain, a conflict of colour with the sun, when I am little more than my shadow (it folds and fits neatly beneath my feet), and there it remains, constrained, until I move. or die. for the marvellous Miz Quickly’s Dumpster Dive Based…
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de-Grammer for dVerse
Another Cloud I knew a girl, she grew she grew, a hued music lived inside her, finger-dancing across her knees. Another day, acid-etched, another soft-edge cloud spilled, another bird’s scribbling word. And her cat’s the colour of sunset. It keeps itself just beyond her dancing-fingers reach. for dVerse and Gnomes
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Sleeping for dVerse
The Ragged Edge of Sleep I. Even as I dream, I hear his sleep. I’ve come to expect it, the way you expect water to be wet, and I wonder about the depth of my dreams if his sleep was no longer mine to hear. II. Mine was an embalmering sleep, and I dreamt of…
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Twiglet #43
The Colour of Air It smells of cow, he says, and I tell him that’s because this is old farm land. Cows and pigs. And we watch the evening sky lose its draping Sussex blue, the air folding into thick hints of pink — my reckoning, it’s a few centuries worth of urine rising up…
It's Still Life 