from Entwined Mind

Black Spaghetti

As she embraces me her heart swells to fill the room,
but somehow she is hiding by revealing everything;

she crosses the room,
bisecting the space her heart occupies
sits down in the kitchen,
chops dark thoughts from
her hair, which tangle
onto the wooden floor like filmspool
and she films it,
thinking of black spaghetti,
and how earlier she stole sunlight from
a municipal hedge,
gave it to a passerby in the form of an apple.

Now she is sitting amongst
doll’s heads and sonic loops
crafting distorted images
to ignite drysplinter minds,
her body glowing with irreverent warmth.

but by 2am she is shape shifty and moody,
wrapped in a witch’s cloak,
cut apart from conversation
pondering electricity,
staring smoke-like at her soul.

I wonder what she sees then,
and how the shadows seem to bulge and
slide around her
like clouds;

she spills a song that laughs out loud,
echoing into orange walls,
wicker furniture,
skin pores, bloodvessels
down spinal chords through sediment soil,
driving down, keening for more
for the heart of the
dripping liquid
molten core.

Later, she lies motionless on the floor
in a childlike cellar
looking up through a glass ceiling
at a recording of her performance,
sees the skin of her heart, the edge of her jaw
becomes a stranger to the life in her body, once more.

“But sometimes,” she thinks
“there’s no need for depth”;
just a dragonfly’s game
of flit and zip,
an open heart;

and warmth,
and hips.

As the dream Sharpens

I want to lead you
to a place
I cannot find alone.

If we are to travel
it must be together,
walking through
streets lit by lamps,
your face half in shadow
your mind half in thought.

Listen:
a heart is beating
inside your body
that does not belong
to you alone,

but to weeds that scramble
over brickwork and railways,
to foxes slinking through sodium light
and the winesongs of drunks.

All filtered through
heavy dusk

into your body
restless with a silence
that won’t settle or form
as the dream sharpens

with heaviness,
with stillness,
into lightness,

into dust.

Hero the Clown

are you trapped in this garden?
or did you make this ghost world to conceal
the truth of an illusion you want to reveal?

Hero the clown
was that wound in your side
gained in battle or dream?
Is that scar on your heart self inflicted and shallow?
or deep and absurd?

Why do you wear these scars with such pride?
And why walk around with such ghosts in your eyes?

Hero the Clown learns Doubt

Hero is Not sure
Not sure not sure notsure.

Should I be Jesus?
Or should that be Pan?

Should I be light?

No tsu re.

Is it love then?

Is there grace?
Should all hatred be erased?

Is it my duty?
Or someone else?

Should I take action
Or contemplate?
Is it political?
psychological?
Or green or heavy or soft or light?

Is it a story?

Am I a book?

Should I begin with me?
Or everything else?

“oh no  that’s the trap”
said the jailers

“you’ve bin looking in the mirror too long.”

At which point everything disappeared
except for Hero and the mirror

Hero looked hard into the mirror
Stared into his eyes with bullet force
hoping to prise a glimpse of his soul
But it no longer reflected the world he saw around him

He looked at the mirrror and noticed
it was more silver
Than the world it reflected.
In the corner of his mirrored eye
He glimpsed a pulsing black hand.

It tried to grab him
through the mirror

It vanished but he knew it would return
That it wanted only him.
That it would arise in slow motion
Thick tarblack with teeth and jaws
Would sink into his backbone.
He shuddered in revulsion,
Imagined himself blackened

by cold fire, eyes blank and dead.

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