singlemilk
i. giant ball melting water and sugar (and lemons from the backyard tree that gives you scrapes and the king of the castle).
ii. large pink tongue, bumpy
iii. contact
iv. childhood
who are the fossils, these days? are they past civilisations, compressed into heated carbon over years and the press of feet and life? is it a hint of the earth's beginnings, its tumultous hormone-raging age where mountains bulged like new spines of feeling? I don't want to be a fossil, thank you but no.
A white and crunkly surface was what she walked on, it aired like the sun and mimicked the shines of everything, of the sea, of the wind, bits of organisms dead millions of years ago and compacted into diamonds.
look first.
What if I fall out the window? What of it? A lot, a little, it would be sad and I shall not drift off into the next, it is too easy and too hard, I would rather have clouds and rain and dirt and the shift of human feet along a station, together in cardboard and coffee and noise, even if there is a dull throb underneath it.
she speaks down to me, darling whatd you think, i'm not made for love.
well you've done it now, out la fenetre, excuse the french.
i am needing to drive, right now, please help me because i am terrible at this sort of report. it's just science, i should just be able to spit it out and not worry about the rhythm of the words or any such beautiful fluid nonsense, it's A SCIENCE REPORT DAMN IT!
i am not driven. i really wish i was, it would come in useful when i needed oomph and power and direction instead of flailing about like the top off a dandelion who has no idea of where it should be off to.
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