Around and up,
in branches twining,
vine and leaf and
winding tendrils creep
to bowers where
her resting lashes lie.
Fingers fumble,
slumbr’ing lovers sigh.
Delightful languors,
pink-tinged morning skies.
Ever slaking,
never wake these eyes.
Avenues
abandoned, and
side-streets retained.
A sidewalk
of flesh and
rooftop flashing.
Overcast, or
perhaps cast down
the down-pour.
Poverty reigns.
The twisted grip of
shale unfixed.
Quartz-flash, agile
shadows flit.
Cliffs of flint
form finger grips.
Shadows lower
into mist,
the Spirals slip,
ignite.
Imagination
in the grip
of twisting wisdom,
writhing life.
Their forms ignite
a lifting mist.
Beckoned lower,
shadows shift.
Pennies plumet
off the cliffs,
redeeming passage
as they slip.
Spiraled shale and
flint unfixed,
quartz-cracked,
agile fingertips.
Imagination
in the grip,
the twisting grip
of life.
Ceremonial freak outs
as someone realized
the girl outside gives all,
but it’s a front.
It’s expected, except…
She’s me —
carved out to sell ads
and hate.
She’s me —
except, unexpected…
and mystic.
It ends
with the sound of
sweeping.
These are paths
that children
may not tread.
Straw on skin,
the handles callous
tender palms.
Bristling at
the thought of
his regard.
Writing good fiction requires good research.
Sometimes that research leads you to places you’d least expect.
And sometimes those places lead to still other places. Darker places. Hidden places. Places where you get lost and wander and begin to wonder what is real and what isn’t…
Silence,
placeholders.
Abstractions last,
tears trailing,
where once
there was
no end.
Numbers bound
round corners.
With Ego —
some division,
With versa,
vice outbidden.
Impulse.
Fall
and darkened leaves,
Fall,
finality — concrete.
A void.
Morning
and squinting eyes.
Mourning
for a wake.
Nostrils! Who ever talks about nostrils?! If you get the angle of a nostril wrong it will completely screw up a face and even if you have no idea how to hold a pencil, you’ll see a nostril at the wrong angle and it will subconsciously drive you mad.
But George MacDonald did really believe that people were princesses and goblins and good fairies, and he dressed them up as ordinary men and women. The fairy-tale was the inside of the ordinary story and not the outside… (and) it always seemed to me as if he were describing the reality, apart from the appearance, of the incident. The novels as novels are uneven, but as fairy-tales they are extraordinarily consistent. He never for a moment loses his own inner thread that runs through the patchwork, and it is the thread that the fairy great-grandmother put into the hands of Curdie to guide him out of the mazes of the goblins.
Feste's Lute 