Slightly out of tune

In the cool of the morning

Open a bottle of last winter

The drone of traffic

Icy, black trees sway like the sea

Far from earth, a feral season

Dead winter grass

Clutching her winter fan

Dragging my knees

A sultry morning survives

As an empty shell

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Janus

Born with two faces, one located conspicuously behind him, the doctors decided to leave it be. After all, it was merely skin accompanied by no organs or anything of its own.

His parents did notice he had a tendency to talk to himself a little more than normal and a little longer than was age appropriate. They saw him ask them to do something about it soon enough, it’s a terrible thing to carry and the stares must have really weighed him down.

But what was truly frightening was how they remembered him crying to himself, telling them it whispered things in his ear, and it smirked when he smiled, of how it sneered when he cried. What reminded them was a quiet two faced smile, a silent arrangement from the wrong directions.

January’s Ashen Afternoons

Hard edged and glass cold the weather covered for 12 o’clock while it sneaked up on us. Someone rolled around in tidal sleep and moaned like a sea creature.

They spoke while I put my legs up to steal the warmth off the window grills; someone played the sunlight off their watch – “CUT IT OUT”. My brain seemed to melt, who was that and didn’t I have an exam to get to? The agony of waiting I thought while looking at my watch; productivity had to wait till tomorrow. Some weather needs to be savored I think while miming swishing wine around. I thought of cake I ate back in 9th grade. It was purple on an afternoon the smelt just like this.

Doors slam. An engine is kicked to life. Tires squeal. I imagine a scooter, speeding into darkness. I returns to the ingenuity of plants, to the magic of light but someone’s voice grew irate. “I grow green horn on my back. It’s all keratin so I’ll need you’re nail-cutter”. I tell her it’s in the bathroom. Was there really a black and white photo of a bespectacled man and a copy of Anna Karenina in there? Sometimes you imagine these things.

A chair falls over, Beach House blasts on an abandoned phone and I see a copy of cloud atlas under the couch. Someone kills a lamp and I remembered how a friend would print Chinese labels to put on glass bottles. “Adds character” he would say, “It’s the same shit but new, full of meaning probably.”

Liberté

Only the post-it was louder, freedom on the wall yellow and lively.

While mundane chatter drowned out all thought, the room is a broken landscape of farmland. An escape that isn’t quite far enough. The wood lining the windows seems close to rot, the lamp a sicking yellow.

A spine cracks, daylight robbery at a book-sale she still had to steal. The creaks, the moans- excesses permitted only to the oldest of homes. Yet the neighbors stir, the thud was from an unfamiliar language.

On the door, a yellow note now usurped, by a lively shade of blood.

Red hot coin

Please, please inside

My house is yours,

Hang your masks on the wall

Throw away your armour

The neighbors don’t mind the clatter

They’re all deaf, you see

Their silence hangs

Like a red hot coin, straight from the fire;

A star hanging over them

From it a thousand beam of illumination 

Crescent

Whispers in an ancient language 

Trees clocked under mist

A half moon lingers

The cat closes his eyes again

And turns his head