A Cage unto Thyself.
I bent the brim of the wind’s flow, yet malicious, stared into my cup bearing remorse. I saw the silly whims of the natural inclination, inclined towards a certain kind of oblivion. Then in syncope rent in laughter in the face of my Lililu : « A mortal titted but benign physical deficit, a fault bequeathed by nature on my used eyes. A very much loved & adorned calamity in the breadth of a damning colloquial headache. »
No. Not everyone. No. And yet not, still. No. Someone’s perhaps in the pantry. But your the cook, bleating like a lamb ‘neath the hungry knife. The cooker in the corner all the more grimy!
Haunting yourself.
This mind on the brim of the wind, in a mortal hesitation. Life’s buttress. Lingering like a cricket on Pinnochio’s proud blushing possession. Longitudinal. Very scalar.
« I’ll put this on the back of my darling dear! I’ll whimp & whine like a little pig. A roasted hog, reclining on daffodils. Chirping for the Mistress in the glen. Still just only so much a silly boar.
All is naught. And still. No, not yet. »
I implore, you sweet little dear. Don’t forget. And yet was there, still someone confiding. Wandering in the mind sky. A star in the dark, naked like a birch.
Hecate in the Fire in the head.
« He was the sacrifice but to himself. A fallen one. A Gibor. Jotun. Still a bit proud, yet. No, not everyone. But those who choose.
…like all the naughty ones. »
Me & you.
Your latest work is full of imagery at once personal and esoteric, but it works, and works well.