what is this sound like desperation?
pretend my ship isn't sinking -
catastrophising in torrid fountains of sunspot calamity,
a splenetic discolouration of fingerprints and storytime.

hanging on tenterhooks, waiting for that sound
stupidity has me by the throat,
something else by the wayside.
hours spent picking imaginary daisy petals
this vociferating twitchiness of needing to strangle something

and i suppose it would be that much easier
if I could distract myself with politics and social philosophy
but my gaze skims over the words and
sorry, what did that mean?

I got lost somewhere between
thinking dreaming imagining...
his hands all over me me,
and his lips in my hair,
his tongue on my skin
that lovely smile, pointed at me, sending that silly fluttery feeling
swishing through my insides
a remembered expression, a crystal clear memory.

so i'm tired of waiting for this moulded glass
to anneal into something that has a shape I can name
pick a gear and drive in it, you say
I picked. I'm driving.
and my engine is stalling waiting for you to
tell me what is going on.

I need a definition of this barely tangible reality
start drawing lines
instead of tacking paper cut-outs up to face the sun
the words of reflected shadows are beautiful
but tell me, when the sun sets and the dew dries
night winds howling and steadfastly shaking.
what exactly do they mean?

and her heart beats very fast around you all the time.