Trees are their own entity and they are, themselves, a home for others.
Roses and violets make a tapestry at ground level, softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
Vipers swim throughout, unhindered by the infectious reputation of a religion that’s irrelevant to them.
Knowing nothing of their star rating and the hatred enclosed in the cultural heart, they silk through, sewing their presence through the garden’s fancy.
I’m not held back by the lack of moonlight – the fireflies guide me even though I’m unnerved by their flutter. When the fireflies die, as they’re bound to – I’ll follow the sound of the Wolf and the trickle of the night river – streaming over land so cold and dense it sucks the life out of living things that lay on it. I’ll shiver in my armour against the rocks inside the cave. I’ll crawl through unending night to find a beacon no one believes exists until I reach it and set the fire.
Rolling hills, grassy carpet daisy-dotted,
Teletubby land but without the disturbing lion and bear who were the fear of all kids born in the nineties,
A vegan KFC plopped in the middle provides ethical nourishment in the land of Bedfordshire,
Red and white tiles, but we’re in England, not America – I assume.
And I can sit on the floor it’s that clean, just in the corner where I like it.
Cake and custard for afters and you don’t have to pay, obviously, because who pays for things in dreamlands.
These words are just clicks and squeaks and growls, telling you I want you.
This keyboard and the one on my phone are sticks in a termite hill, are feathers in my tail, and what I really want is for us to grab each other and bond and fuck for a few years, maybe longer, if you like.
under the leaves
press-ups on god’s lawn
dig my finger in the soil and it’s perfect, bugs move out of my way
Celeste in the gutter,
“It’s a night spot.”