Highways of buttercups and daisy chains yellowed the green earth, the sun scorched upon us a new dawn and sunflowers raised and turned their heads with worship, eating its fill of rays.
Ice cream vans sing their siren call, we chase it beneath treacled air like pavlov’s dogs our tongues lolling out from our mouths.
The benches were stocked
full of couples, purchasing
a kiss from the sun
belated post based on the prompt here
The machines outside whirred and buzzed like flies, and I noticed how with every spoonful of soup some dripped back into the bowl.
The air was fetid with melancholia as the wind drew dancing shadows with the branches of trees.
The machines outside carried on with their hums.
‘Life is just a liminal space between death.’ A voice in my head said. And I nodded.
It was a mundane Thursday, and the dust was making me sick, along with the melancholy which burdened the air with its treacle.
‘The world eats us all in the end.’ The friend in my head said.
The nausea rose from my guts, and my head started to ache.
And I ate the treacled air till I was empty inside.
The floor under my feet was no longer solid. I needed the talons of a predator to grasp the moment, but vertigo had me in its clutches.
It should have been a Sunday; it felt like a Sunday
This melancholic disease is the defining symptom of a Sunday.
But alas, it was Thursday.
and melancholy on a Thursday goes deeper
I sat and ate that treacled air until I was empty
There is a haunted house where something innocuous, like a painting or a shoe, is moved every day. And there is the sound of a dripping tap. Drip. Drip. But every time you go to look, the drip is gone, but as soon as you turn your back, Drip Drip it goes.
When the night comes to pass and you’re lying in your bed, the washing machine is spinning and spinning like all the thoughts in your head. And it spins and spins, and the swill in your head rinses the same old lines all over again.
And your skull is beside itself with its smug grin, laughing in your sleep; that’s why you grind your teeth.
And when you go outside, you see that your skeleton is wearing someone else’s fucking skin! And the man laughs, he laughs like your skull in your sleep, and you want to grab hold of that fucker and bleed your wrath all over him!
She existed only in the periphery of their vision. No one saw that in her was reflected truth. But maybe they had sensed it and that was why they never turned. She was a mirror, a fractured caricature of the society they tried to withhold.
They treated her presence like the absence of something long forgotten.
She was the earth and the bubble, the ecosystem that sustained them. Yet they dare not look.
The roads they paved both physically and metaphorically were scars upon her arms and wrists. And she bleeds away her sustainability while they continue to carve and crave more and more.
And while the Jays perch upon her oak crown and paint the forests, they cut them down. And sometimes she could forgive them, they were after all animals themselves. And some trees got put to good use but then they started to cut too much
And the land bared it’s bone.
The night was different shades of black with gold specs, and the moon was a silver goddess shining brightly onto the world when she left.
A fleeting love that died like the wilted roses of winter as snow blinkered all our colours in white.
The train came at 21:05, and that was that gone in a haze she was just a face staring back from a window with a tear writing sadness upon her cheek.
The snow of winter turned grey as it was muddied by the boots of people trudging their days away mindlessly while I noticed every little wish unfulfilled in the stars.
A plane shot through my vision, pointing as if it was going to the moon, a trail behind it that is poison in its own polluting way.
It occurred to me then that life itself was pollution, everything was spinning on this globe, and everything was interacting within it.
Yet we pulled ourselves outside of it with our distractions and words, but I know now it was only ever an illusion.
That we are the earth, as are the birds and the other beasts that share this world.
And the train shook on the tracks, our goodbyes said only in our staring eyes as the train rushed past, and I knew I’d never see her again.
yet she was still the earth as was I, even after the train tracks drew a divide between us
I didn’t yet know if that was comforting or all the more painful.
These goodbyes always feel like the end of the world, still, it turns, but somehow it doesn’t always help to remember that fact.
Our emotions never could stick to the notion of calendars and diary planners sometimes, an anniversary feels too quick in the heart and loss too long in the dark.
Neither of us waved, our eyes blinking through the sadness that words couldn’t express.
My eyes took a picture of her face in the window while it never left; it fades as the days go by, her absence getting more noticeable with every feature lost in the memory.
It seems to me absence is a lot like a cockroach
nothing can kill these beasts
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