twennyfree

i was about to write
then i found writings to be read
and the letters scrunched their brows
and these words crumbled onto this page
disappointedly

then i had a realisation, 
like the moon was just, there,
like the screen is just, here,
and the silent whisper hushed

inchoacreation

a shell
the world is
stuck between pages
million chambers, many-valved

we play house
where we heart,

where we learn multiplication
slow
le-e

off the shelf
by the landslide
a pristine inchoacreation
such
 

radian

the folding rain,
a light wearer
a light we're

may the slightest light

and may the slightest light start a fire

take up these someone other's signals in the smoke,
consider them whispering away
may the clouds fold unto the carpet fibres,
cause heaven to roll into bedrooms
and hold everything that gravity's only thinking of keeping down

there.
the inside worms climbing trails
where i imagined trees and canopies,
there are no birds there;
they feel safer where they can't be picked at

along they drag
swallowed emotions in stone
they scrape, rake,
i pay them less attention
and wait for the slightest light to blaze between my shoulders

stringthing

it's come to this
the way that towers push against the ground
to be tall
is a little misunderstanding,
but let me fold a corner on that one
so i can come back to it

if my chest were a ballroom floor,
then there have been steppings and creaks all through
into my chandelier neck;
the air thicked with skirts waving,
pirouettes,
gazes across the room holding on to my ribs.
purple, elegant, glimmering masks
sprawling around pairs of isles
trying to archipelago
trying to ginger through the tectonics
of my organelles,
flooded with the music of several hearts beating.

the music has kept
asking for a hand

the music has kept
a hand on my shoulder
a hand on my hip
a hand in my clasp
a head on my breast
the string of my eyes stretching and stretching 'til i can really see
the yarn in front of me being spun
and the cat getting tangled
on its back
pawing at the towering air

sincere: whole, clean, pure, uninjured, unmixed

a few years ago, i learned honesty
was not a noun to be adjectivised,
but a state to be verbed,
and more than that, to be lived
as a continuous stretch

(what else is upgrowing)

so in an intuitive impulsive address to life,
i stated
that i would hereby want to be bad at lying
in order to surrender all my secrets,
(unwanted toys i know were teaching me bad habits)

one by one
they left my coffers,
sometimes by my handing them over to embracing hands,
othertimes by clutching fingers pulling at snapping threads,
yet moretimes by no transaction of my own,
but by my standing outside castle walls, rained upon,
watching the stones wet
as my clothes soak and my clutchings slide out
from underneath my clever fabrics,
damp and discontraptioned.

despite the weather, i'd repeated to myself that
it was worth losing my patchwork playthings
since they would never satisfy
(despite their promises otherwise)

a few years later,
i have a parent who makes sure my head
is facing the sea,
even in front of the yawning waves,
even when i thrash about
tattooing emotions on my cheeks and corneas,
looking for surfaces to glance at me,
so that i can catch me looking back

the glimpse is of a pair of pupils
dilating, taking in the wordless
brushes of open eyes.

uncomputing