Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


71. Rumplestiltskin

In the barren bowl
 Of the local park
 There is more brown
 Than green
 And naked trees
 Rest like tired moths
 Upon grass
 That has been lacerated
 By studded shoes
 And knees and toes
 And elbows
 That have ploughed it
 The edges of the path
 Look like eyebrows
 Poorly plucked
 And rats-tail
 Scatter and shred
 Across the carpet
 Jarring teenage love
 Sit upon February
 The fourteenth
 Like it is a mantelpiece of
 Tip blue hair to grey sky
 Beiged fingers
 Black fingernails
 They watch their childhood haunts
 Through the frosted panes
 Of spectacle windows
 And wonder why
 Nostalgia dies so bitter
Kiss my empty skin
 I find myself a love affair
 In the sky
 Clouds form a coastline
 A single dribble of peach
 Taints the ash
 Like careless words
 And I tilt my chin towards it
 Already the spindle of my mind
 And begins to weave
 Gold from straw.

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