I Really Need To Update It Like The Volume Has More Than Quadrupled I Think - Tumblr Posts
Moonlike marbles, pink blemishes Like craters on their surfaces - From port to starboard they roll And it hurts as they move - Their quiet heartbeats On the synthetic floor (Careful not to hear the rattling at the door)
The column that holds the place, It strains against every step or Breath - Growing gardens of bones on its wing, Blossoming with bubbles of white Translucent chrysanthemums - in grapes So heavy it might fall.
They wear cowls And flowing capes And skin-tight, dimly coloured suits And drape themselves so they won't Know that they have skin: They shiver at mirrors And shiver at the wind.
They built stairs Leading to nothing - to forget Which doors open where. They taped windows to the walls With masking tape - too weak to hold The weights of both looking Within or peering without.
Sitting on cratered wood, they hold onto Strands of vines, and stalks and grains All turned to black, streaked with silver veins - Smelling of soil and colder ash - ( Harvests have been scarce - Distant thunder blessing baskets With a mere pound of stars)
The roots have grown Into knots, and on the knots Lakes of mold, and in the mold Those eyes await, wide awake. As the roots twist and grasp The wood burns and breaks and Screams in the secret tongues of the second sky.
There is this drumming In the stone of the column In the glass of the dome (where they painted the stars) It comes as the tide and breaks with the waves - It leaves in a sigh - and paints with a hush - The sand in sleeping greys, the coast with a burning brush In colors that left their name to a world of scars.
They wear hoods, Short black vests, Shoes that look like shoes and Pants that look like pants. They go from east to west and sing A song that leaves no trace - But when they stop - the dream is dreamt, and the tears are wept.
They push viscous sludge into The rotting metal tubes That run from the cellar to the house, Green and smelling like strawberry. (Artificial and sour, from a fizzy drink Forgotten in the fridge.) They push with hands and feet through dark aluminium grates.
As it goes down, the tubes Spasm and contract - So they keep pushing with their hands, They keep pushing with their feet, Until it goes down and down and they sit. (Then they buckle as the tide comes back And their hearts spill - in a geyser of bile black.)
None of them has the strength To lift hammer or titanium nails. They limp back and forth Grabbing papers and putting them down Forgetting where they went or why they would drown. So the roots will knot and the tubes will spasm - And the column will crack and the marbles will roll -
But look! Look at the painted sky over the house! Full that it is of all the colors from the waves! And the shells in cradles, the chitin in the tombs! In porcelain sets and golden shimmering wounds - Brimming with shades taken from her breath on your neck, From the hand in your hair - Sure, the house will someday fall, But the house hasn't fallen - that day hasn't come yet!
25/09/24