Phisisturae

the rules of the bed are very simple - you are given a body and a window. everything is made difficult - but you get participation prizes. the aim is to find yourself - hint: look between your fingers.

Trees S e a s o n Ground

Within my ribs a mountain stands, peeks and squints at the outside. He knows he fills the cracks in me. I mourn the days when I could breathe. Some grand view will crown the heights and one day I will see.

The moment thickens, the door is heavy. There is nothing between you and I. The morning rolls over, I am solitary. There is nothing between you and I. I practise breathing, the air shuts. There is nothing between you and I. Streets become monologues, no one talks. There is nothing between you and I. Music is there, smoke arrives. There is nothing between you and I. I see your figure, you have no eyes. There is nothing between you and I. Cutting you out, I colour you in. There is nothing between you and I. Made like a bed, I feel you are thin. There is nothing between you and I. Words fly out the holes, I hold you in my teeth.

i. Apogee Make light - cast it on your face like a spell. You tell me things - murmur and crackle. You are another station beyond the fuzz of this city and science. Appreciate roads how far they run and what they touch. Step into the firmament - please on steps of shade and eyes staring at the poor earth. ii. Perigee Walk with purpose towards anything. A magnet has come to town. Breathe on me - turn to face your halo. Shimmer. Your arms on my back, chest to chest, yours on yours. Watch the hands on the clock stroke. Frame pieces of me with your hands. Times bend to you. I'm slipping - hold on.

Foxing about like fire and sugar going out the shops together. Rounding corners with a smile and a list drinking to yourself. Knowing everyone with glances and a shrug making yourself special.

I can't walk happily with a shadow behind me when I'm all-knowing that this will be another ending eventually I remember fondly when I used to think spiders could fly. Because in a sunlit classroom - you can hardly see their silk wafting behind them out of their rear. Instead I used to concentrate on why spiders would fly and where they were going. I don't do things not anything not with my fingers or feet now I am using constantly God, I remember looking at my great aunt hilda's grave, in amongst the red valerian, the ivyleafed toadflax on the wall, those brown butterflies - and I used to wonder quite often how they managed to fit her i

I realise I am yellow. I have pink, underneath the layers. But I have more ache. As I bring my fingers together I realise it has been hours. My eyes ache at nothing, Reluctantly opened like stuck pliers. Water is taken, but the blanket remains. A body made leaden, locomotion in clicks. The window is opened, obligingly. Sitting on my hand is the air, gnawing. The air waits as my knuckles do. As I stand up with weight - and this air feels new.

They said they needed me. With a plush swoosh I was opened. A collection of thin metal, freed. Both taut and plump, I blossomed. What is it to be needed? Crowds became hot, inflated. Rain felt too warm, naked. Feelings inspected, traded. Need runs off of me. A world bevelled again, now. Collected, I close the scene. Accepting of being carried around.

The door mat is crunchy - This movement is difficult. The tongue is a hallway - One I can taste. There are no windows on the hallway. There are neighbours opposite. The throat moves - I hate every second of it.