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poem!
This refused to let me type up my sleep disorder notes until I wrote it down. Which should in no way be taken as an indication of quality, just bossiness.
Mystery Shopper
i
I say, What would you like today?
She says, How about a little of everything?
ii
Golden armour crossed over itself
brings her skin into focus:
white and pink and white again
and where she touches the card her fingertip
reflects corpse-blue.
Golden knight lifts his visor and says
the things she wants me to see
but doesn't want me to see
but wants --
she wants what the knight holds in his hands,
the cardboard proof of self-destruction.
Cupped blood of her future action
blurs like a mandala and
she traces with one finger:
red wheels in red circles,
eternal and spun on the body's axis
like the heart recycling the product of the bones.
Amateur journalist's hand on blue lines,
exposé, two stars and faint praise
damning my name to preserve hers:
glass bubbles like champagne microcosm of
tiny spheres within the larger one
that tosses her afterlife to and fro;
crystal lined with cheap velvet,
bad lighting, good intentions.
Within the note upon the table
my name is spelled wrong but the words --
internal reflection all along the curve
and all along the glass
and all along the slanted mirror of her pen --
are not cruel words.
Paper absorbs the ink and stops it at the boundary
of every letter; no more no less.
She leaks her considered opinion and halts
where the objective voice ends
and testament begins:
SHE FAILED TO SEE THIS
No more. No less.
Her hand does not tremble; arches downwards
with cobweb grace and legible fate
and isobars along the vertical,
exactly where she knows to draw the line.
Warm dry palm uncurls and speaks to me:
I will be cold, I will be wet,
I promise the future
and all its welcome silence.
In the crease of her skin is the evening chill,
the slowing pump and swirl,
the thickening water's decoupage of
faintly blushing blossoms in
a tastelessly attractive shade of
pink.
iii
She looks at me:
her two loose rings of pale blue challenge with
the darkness tugging them wide,
the dilated depths of her despair;
the direct assessment of the optic whole.
So how's my future?
And I say, It's rose-coloured.
And I hand her my business card,
to help her with the spelling.
Mystery Shopper
i
I say, What would you like today?
She says, How about a little of everything?
ii
Golden armour crossed over itself
brings her skin into focus:
white and pink and white again
and where she touches the card her fingertip
reflects corpse-blue.
Golden knight lifts his visor and says
the things she wants me to see
but doesn't want me to see
but wants --
she wants what the knight holds in his hands,
the cardboard proof of self-destruction.
Cupped blood of her future action
blurs like a mandala and
she traces with one finger:
red wheels in red circles,
eternal and spun on the body's axis
like the heart recycling the product of the bones.
Amateur journalist's hand on blue lines,
exposé, two stars and faint praise
damning my name to preserve hers:
glass bubbles like champagne microcosm of
tiny spheres within the larger one
that tosses her afterlife to and fro;
crystal lined with cheap velvet,
bad lighting, good intentions.
Within the note upon the table
my name is spelled wrong but the words --
internal reflection all along the curve
and all along the glass
and all along the slanted mirror of her pen --
are not cruel words.
Paper absorbs the ink and stops it at the boundary
of every letter; no more no less.
She leaks her considered opinion and halts
where the objective voice ends
and testament begins:
SHE FAILED TO SEE THIS
No more. No less.
Her hand does not tremble; arches downwards
with cobweb grace and legible fate
and isobars along the vertical,
exactly where she knows to draw the line.
Warm dry palm uncurls and speaks to me:
I will be cold, I will be wet,
I promise the future
and all its welcome silence.
In the crease of her skin is the evening chill,
the slowing pump and swirl,
the thickening water's decoupage of
faintly blushing blossoms in
a tastelessly attractive shade of
pink.
iii
She looks at me:
her two loose rings of pale blue challenge with
the darkness tugging them wide,
the dilated depths of her despair;
the direct assessment of the optic whole.
So how's my future?
And I say, It's rose-coloured.
And I hand her my business card,
to help her with the spelling.
no subject
The last part is my favorite.
no subject
<333 Good!
no subject
And I think it is good...