dear cloud girl

wrote this for a dear friend of mine


1. dear cloud girl

dear cloud girl,

i see my shoes they
look back at me from polluted
puddles where dead flies swim with
sharp goldfish the
colour of sherbet and citron and

(don't tell them this but the
goldfish, they saw
us too)

it's because your home had
been changed it
was not your own it
had sung and glowed and
pulsed and muttered 
/but not mattered
'twas made of heart eyes and
set by centuries and denim
flares you hated the whisperers
that kept you there, you
never understood
never heard the sort of
untold tales from the 
deep dense knuckled boughs 
steady steep
into gelid

There's been a rumour going around about 
this new sort of sickness i've heard
it's called something like
the disease comes in shot-glasses 
of summer seas that creak like
rocking horses and the finer
skies where birds bleed
into the horizon like

we've been taught to
quell symptoms- before they
quell us:
let slip from
ebony coals of
clockwork cites and believe the
lies (skies) that bind you with
invisible ropes to an
invisible chair.

they say it's more dangerous than love and hate they
say it's more dangerous than words.

and they're not prepared for an
and they don't want you to catch it.

it swooned with the rain
night it came

you slept between walls 
of Shakespeare and
rusted love poems you
never heard the sound of
your body as it 
broke breaths of hinges
between chinked dandelion
chains and reached the
pearl cry sky safe
away from this
jagged sorry

sometimes it's just so 
easy to recover and
i know that there's a 
little crevice in my mind
that yearns for black scarves
and splintered cafe table

if you search long enough
through my cinnamon scented
cloud i think you'll still
find a soundtrack of city
sirens and cellophane 
hums so
please don't be like me dear
cloud girl

i know how easy it is to replace
glitter feathers with greasy 
eyelashes and
creased leather leaves 
stick to your body and smoulder
pure pure skin,
that seek and needle
and make you
sick those
damn label leaves

because sometimes they
make you believe that
thick thawed human
bones are preferable to 
the light spin of a
dragonfly hymn with
eyes like 
and green glass

we drank from planet mars that night my
dear we needed to escape the blood /it
flowed out into rivers somehow;
we cheered and thanked that we 
had not been picked by
the scarlet streams (screams)

but we still drank from the 
r.e.d planet and you can
see the
necklace of c.r.i.m.s.o.n beads glisten 
upon my
collarbones that I handpicked from
firedrop fragments 
when my heart was lulled 
into my eyes

(if it were lilac we would not have

/we watched people drown that night.

i think it's because we can't forget 
that dreaming is (not) a virtue and
reality is (not) just a state of mind.
that they keep insisting and repeating:
our primary instinct is (not) to just survive.

we wish we could vomit and claw every
sentence from our throats like ants so the
ladder of ink that we scraped up would 
not become too long and we have to keep
erasing mistakes (the birds eat the shreds of
rubber like skin) so our knitting needle 
fountain pens will not unravel the ladder like
a silk circle of pink woollen thread.
/we chose fountain pens because they are more
romantic than biros

but we must forgive them- they don't
know what they are doing, dear cloud girl.
they think the only way to mend people is to
sew them up with a needle and thread, injecting 
them with punctures sharper than nitric coffee 
again and
again and
so we tear ourselves into pieces to
keep others whole.

i don't think they realise that 
every human holds a 
skyscraper in their heads, that it ticks
against the insides of one's skull and
languid lugubrious concrete walls
begin to decay like rotten glass
apples and sandpaper, i don't think they
realise that soon the towers will reach
/the ground eats up dust like stars and
crunches crashes into
/the dust spills fills into
atmosphere, glitter glistening/

so i'll meet you in that wonderland
cloud girl, in
this kind of hazy centric 
peppermint scented 
asylum for the infected 
you'll find me three
thousand pages to the
left, a cage of converse cautions,
standing in a little puddle with
crayoned apricot fish and bloated
smoke flies at my feet.
(at least pollution is beautiful)

so sing me a song, cloud girl.
we wouldn't care for songs if they had
wanted us to, i don't think real music
speaks from hollow hearts and
boughs of trees.
not really.

best wishes if wishes ever exist for the infected.

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