Make a home of twigs and hope
adorned with discarded plastic and thorns
decordated with dedicated labour
and wait for me in your bower there.
In pairing season or
short night solstice
no folley prevails greater than love abandoned.
In sunlight blinding
the gift of lighting
rest there in the undergrowth.
Entropy and psychic
Eros and Psyche
reading
souls needing
answers.
Standing on that hill
leaving
breeze dress bright and gleaming
Always gives me pause.
In me, with me, on my mind
it’s something tragic and hard to find
to see homes abandoned
souls sleeping on hard concrete
We cant seem find common ground
so we cut ties.
So clearly
So cleanly
So easily
So permenent.
Psyche and Eros don’t talk anymore.
Does the rain fall on that side of the mountain?
And when the phone rings, I cringe. While you just ignore it.
If the water rises up will you come down from your castle?
To help us poor wretches, herein the mud.
And who do you see when you gaze in the mirror?
And what has been seen by the stains on your bed?
The rain on the tin is less hectic than I thought.
Then again chaos tends to harden ones resolve.
Im tired of thinking about these lost investments
Nobody likes to tally what was lost.
Still dropping coins in the slot machine.
Its hard to fathom.
We ignore all calls and we ignore all the text
We let some glorified image of happiness stagnate in our head
until memories grow black mould
furry rotten fruit
fruit so delicious, now unrecognisable
All that changes is time.
I don’t know why sleeping is so hard for us.
What goes on in the astral
In the narcotic hopes for morning.
I wonder how long I can stand it
standing here in knowing
its the weight of knowing that kills more
and the mess
and the knowing.
You’re out there and time ain’t no Yo-Yo
knowing wont come back
knowing knows the string is cut
for good
no good.
It was a good part of me.
There’s been too much death, too much loss
I can’t stand anymore loss
I can’t stand to lose anymore goodness
There is an irony to cleaning up and flighting right
an irony that turns bitter
with endless question
What was the point?
What is the point?
Its a fine day to say- ‘Hey storms arnt that scary.’
Mud glorious mud, in my minds eye
you’ll always be standing beautiful in your sundress
RAISED INK PRESS – Andrew Spencer (c) 2024
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