bursts of orange

Cross legged, shoes on the ground beside her she stares intently at the sky, "with me friend it's always the same" she breezily explains, "Trouble sleeping only brings dimensions to my lucidity His breath on my back heats my insides How do I tell him I need room? That I am the irony bespoke in char coloured flowers I hope and I ache then shun serendipity I wanted a him before he came Now I want instead both sides of my bed the whole of me and the silence of REM... How do I tell All the hims ?" **Conversations outside and other things**  The Above Average Yearning Heart

He said casually over his chocolate cake "Do you see this glass? Glory is resplendent beauty or magnificence, a distinguished ornament or an object of pride. An object attains glory,  if it serves the purposes intended by its creator anything contrary robs it of this glory In our eyes The cracks in this glass make it inglorious... Because we are aware they were unintended In your eyes The cracks in you make you inglorious... Because you assume they were unintended Struggle as you might you are glorious So leave well enough alone..."   **Conversations over food and other things**  The Agnostic Theologian

We sigh pebbles of regret They trickle down only to be muffled by the carpet of wasted wants Mother always warned they would come Pillagers of youth Muddying eclectic energies She never warned of a lesser self Or she didn't know to So daughters waste away gritty magnificence For the sake of false deities Lie themselves into prosaic emotionality Because the glow frightens them As it was not foretold So daughters walk around dulled A mismatch of dormant and emerging Etheric, Astral and Mental energies Sent forth with no instruction in alignment... No instruction in being their best selves.                                                                ...

In my Doldrum… This shallow of ennui I won’t come ashore until I catch a big wave To him whose demons are cathartic to my own That we may both be awash.

I have lain you down Underneath my avocado tree Next to my other broken crys I have lain you down but there you need not stay Return, Don't turn back I'll write you into my living, See you in foggy mornings and dusty boots a walking I''ll douse you on my lapel wear you in the ticking of my watch Till you're out of sight and gone for good Return, Don't turn back I'll sit down and braid those grass crowns you gifted me so often I was supposed to be part of a gypsy caravan  Not a solitary flower girl in much too chunky bracelets Where did you go friend? If I trail behind you will I pick up the path?

I am told not to punctuate my smileys But like the random capitalisation in my typing I always seem to speak in emphasis It is my constant internal climate A clime that dramatises the weather A clime that pops and crackles as it changes One never quite stable but always promising..

It's silly to leave your peace in the turmoil of calloused hands Admist the grooves of dried up blisters piled up on themselves from labours of love Labours through guitars, drums or bassed undertones and yet you find yourself trudging through the mud to be held in those hands The laying on of hands should heal, be the shawl that wraps you in feelings of solidity So why are you shivering in the cold? Is the journey the alms you must pay to stop the tick that makes you rub your female scar? You know the one.. The one that you've always had and seems ever changing The one you get the first time you are made to truly feel the weight of your gender The one that itches every time you are counted among this number The one you brandish as your induction.. So here I am soaked to my knees, rubbing at my scar, furiously determined to get where peace waits.