Poetry | Stories | Photography
the sun went on holiday
Birds sleep, dreaming about singing
you want to watch the reels
Monday will come too soon
cleaning and the bullshit can wait
I want to feel Vellichor
we come to an agreement
You stay put in your happy chair
coffee and books for me
Her heart became mine
beautiful even in death
taking what is hers
Her peach-perfect skin
shedding her skin for my books
an eternal touch
Her soul in the words
a difficulty reading
her curse for my love
We begin to slow in Autumn as the days shorten and the nights lengthen.
Salads turn to casseroles, and coffee turns to rum.
We find our cosy corner, a stack of books, and turn day after day into night.
When the rains come, we wear our favourite socks; we slow down.
Another book waits
A few already devoured
My books sit watching
A charlatan on some disused corner said, “You are what you love. Remember those words, for they will set you apart from the rest.”
Walking down an empty street thinking about the charlatan’s words, they rattle and bounce around the expanse of her skull: threatening.
A thought takes shape; She says to herself, “If you are what you love, then my organs are books, my brain is an archive of knowledge, the blood that runs through my veins is ink, and my soul is my many words.
Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
Assist the night
Stay up until the light
Reading tonight
C & K 