Shallow Window

Rebirth

2011-08-08T14:22:00.003+01:00

I have moved...

Valediction

2011-03-05T14:22:00.000Z

An ending of sorts.

Drape

2010-12-08T14:22:00.002Z

He finally spoke last night, my otherwise silent visitor, looked up at me over his photographs and uttered a single word. The problem is I’m not sure I understand his language entirely; the word was unrecognisable. It could be that it was drowned beneath my shock at hearing him make a sound for the first time. Either way he wouldn’t repeat himself when asked, just went back to brooding in his corner.

As I write, Shallow Window is open, a teasing breeze making tepee shapes with the sheet hung in front of it. I put up the curtain yesterday, following a note from them; even a record keeper needs to sleep from time to time. Pulling it aside, I can see interesting things happening in the mirror that is three; today I will spend my time watching its growth.

Hypnos

2010-11-22T14:22:00.012Z

As of yet I have been unable to achieve understandable communication with the visitor, who is still sitting silent in the corner. But he has been watching me, his gaze following my movements about the room. Still uncertain what they look like, I think that perhaps this could be one of them come to monitor me, to make sure I am keeping records as I should be. Of course I enjoy sitting here, and such a measure is not necessary, but I am intrigued by this strange guest and do not want him to leave, at least not until I have learnt a little more about him.

That aside, floating above the bed this morning I reached out for The Librarian and was pleased to be greeted by a warm hand in mine. The past few days have been thrilling. Happy that this new broom has space for two, the pair of us dropped down to see a local band of musicians and had a wonderful time. And, before returning to Shallow Window, we stood beneath a majestic full moon releasing sky lanterns, watching them float away like jellyfish in the deep.

And right now, beyond the mirror in six, I can see a few of the panes are lit up, but I’m uncertain which to focus on. Perhaps seven, where there is a shadowy couple dancing to the pleasant sounds escaping from an old gramophone.

Eurhythmy

2010-11-11T14:22:00.008Z

Last night I dreamt I was flying above a lighthouse on my brand new broom and, though asleep, I was aware of a comforting hand placed on my head. Perhaps it belonged to the librarian?

This morning, when I awoke, I found that everything has changed, all is new, even the views through the panes. In fact it could be that this isn’t Shallow Window at all, but somewhere else entirely. If they pay me a visit I’ll be sure to ask, but for now I am content because, like a blank canvas, all around me is full of potential.

Anyway, having neatly folded the napkin found under my head upon opening my eyes, I am now gazing through this new window, marvelling at the distant mountain and the wonderful memories attached to it. And, ah! I have a visitor, he hasn’t said anything yet, but perhaps I should head over to the corner in which he is sitting and speak with him; he may know the answers to the questions flitting about my skull.

Gnosis

2010-10-31T13:11:00.002Z

A vivid dream, followed by a breath of air and a note from Shallow Window wishing you all a wonderful Allantide.

Bond

2010-10-09T01:11:00.007+01:00

The clocks appear to have stopped, which I’m sure is only temporary, and there is an anticipatory hush over Shallow Window.
As I look down, trying to recognise the floating feeling in three, I can see there are still a few things happening below. But they are not as clear as I’d like them to be, so I must wait, exercise a steadfast patience.
In the meantime I will wear a smile beneath the bandages, for facing towards darkness I found light.

Arc

2010-10-05T13:11:00.009+01:00

I have remained in the same position as always, only now I am not alone. A wish has been granted, I have the companionship I have always craved, and the future, though unformed, is full of promise. Together, the nameless Librarian and I, we will form a pair of wings and fly towards the aether.

Spell

2010-09-02T13:11:00.001+01:00

Having shouted through Shallow Window at the top of my voice, I will now spend some time, with all seventeen windows open, waiting to see what will fly in.

Fervour

2010-08-23T14:22:00.002+01:00

I have been thinking about desire rather a lot recently. And now, sitting here on the eve of the corn moon, I have been overpowered by the sudden urge to stand and shout through Shallow Window.

Figure

2010-08-13T14:22:00.007+01:00

There is rather a lot of movement in number three today, but the window cleaners are here; so I’ll have to wait until they’re gone before taking a closer look. Being as I’m so excitable, on account of the pleasant dream I had last night, perhaps I’ll take the opportunity to dance about Shallow Window.

I dreamt I received a large picnic basket, in return for window eleven’s paperwork. The basket was full of soul cakes and toffee apples, and, beside it, there was also a new broom and fresh bandages.
Looking over at the mirror, I can see the bandages I’m wearing have become a little worn and frayed, and my fingers are crossed, because I could really go for a toffee apple right now.

At last! The cleaners have left, I can return.
But, oh, before I forget, let me just mention the photograph I found, floating in the puddle below six. A ghost from eleven? It could be; I’ll take another look later.

Fetich

2010-08-05T14:22:00.005+01:00

Yesterday, for the first time since being placed up here, I was finally paid a visit by them. They came to collect the records belonging to window eleven; no hands or pockets, it just vanished into their nebulous presence. And communicating was difficult, the language unfamiliar, but I did manage to discover that I am not the first to be sat here.
Scrying Scribe, they called me, the latest in a long line of… Of what exactly? I couldn’t make it out. The whole experience was rather overwhelming and, as far as my name is concerned, I think I prefer Scrybe, because, well, it’s shorter.

And I wonder if it’s about time for me to pay a visit of my own; head back down through the tunnels, to see the Librarian again.

But first it’s back to the scenes in three, where I can see a large number of pebbles being cast into a lake.

Presage

2010-07-30T14:22:00.006+01:00

Shallow is the window I sit in, and yet there are so many fathomless views.

Unperturbed by the mysterious hands pressed against six, and the large puddle which has begun to spread out beneath it, today I am excitable.

In window three I can see a couple standing hand in hand on a hilltop. But it is difficult to make out their faces against the starless night sky; tracing outlines is the best I can do.
And the moon, benign and true, is always full here; it makes me want to pick up my broom and take flight, so that I can be where they are.

But, of course, my position is here, at this small desk beneath the panes. And dreams, so many dreams; my eyes focused on the views, pen scribbling across the page.
“Dangling feet from window frame, will I ever ever reach the floor?”

Page

2010-07-26T02:22:00.009+01:00

Last night I dreamt a dream. This isn’t unusual, I always dream. But this one was different to any I’ve experienced before. I was jumping through the panes, unable to find my way back here, to Shallow Window. First eleven, then two, then nine, and then twelve. But no solid ground, nowhere to cast my anchor.
I wonder what it means.

And today, when a friend asked me what the meaning of my life is, I had to loosen the bandages and think for a while.
In truth I’m unsure. I know that I want these words of mine, the records I keep, to be read, and by as many people as possible (although it’s a little difficult to know how to bring this about). But also I’d like to travel, to explore, to view the world from as many different windows as possible, always keeping record along the way. But is this meaning? Or just a way to fill the time between now and the end?

And I’ve been thinking, if one wishes hard enough, is it possible that said wish will come true? Because I’ve spent the past few months wanting to shrink time, or sprint along its creases, so that I can be wrapped up warm, in her, once again. But maybe I’m just not wishing hard enough.

Anyway, I’m sitting here now, gazing into window three, watching as the picture becomes clearer, still in love with these endless dreams.

Purpose

2010-07-14T14:22:00.006+01:00

Sitting here, waiting for window three to reopen, there is a smile beneath the bandages once again. Shallow Window closes to the public at the end of the week and, though I have enjoyed having people visit, it will be nice to reclaim this space as my own.

Ah, a flicker, but it’s not very clear yet; the glass is still rather cloudy.

Sleeves rolled up, pen and gloved hands at the ready; staring through the panes, forever catching dreams.

Puddles

2010-07-13T02:22:00.018+01:00

With one arm beside
the censored side of my person
And another spread across
the distant cracking in the sky
I allow the words to tumble out.

They begin slowly and then become more fluent, easier to string together.
And I can see; cloudy at first, but it always starts this way.

Over by the door there stands a man, I believe I have met him before, his name is Eilian. What he is doing here I have no idea, this isn’t his window, he belongs in eleven.
But it must be Eilian; having stared at him for so long, it’d be impossible to mistake him for anyone else.

A quick glance over at the flickering in window eleven. On the ground are those familiar individuals; Annabelle, Bojan, Clare and Dawn. Yes that is Dawn, she’s still asleep, but Eilian is no longer beside her.

I wonder what has caused him to leave Dawn behind like this. Whatever it is, it’s going to become irrelevant in a matter of seconds. He is stepping through the door now.
Through he goes, and the darkness swallows him up. Perhaps if I sit here long enough I’ll be able to find out where it leads.

And what’s this? Someone is following behind him, a person I’ve not seen before. It’s hard to make out her face in the glow, such wonderful colours, she’s surrounded by them. No, that’s incorrect, she is them, or they are her. This really is beautiful; I wish you could see it.

She has followed him, through the door, and they’ve shut it firmly behind them.
And I’m looking forward to gaining more clarity, on this view through window three.

Prurient

2010-07-01T15:33:00.003+01:00

There is a steady wind blowing today; it settles me as it creeps in, through the small gap between glass and frame. The windows are all quiet for now, which means I can loosen the bandages; at least until tomorrow, when Shallow Window opens up to the public.

Sometimes, as I sit here, I wonder what it all means. I wonder why they placed me here, with pen and paper, and only the views for company.
The rebirth happened in a blur, and I remember very little. But if I could meet them again, and speak face-to-face (or bandage to bandage), I’d express my gratitude, for the beauty I’ve been exposed to.

"Memories are what warm you up from the inside. But they're also what tear you apart."
I struggle to recall who said it, but the words have stuck with me. I’m sitting here now, with love on my mind, hoping for a miracle.
The false awakenings have vanished. I welcome each new dawn with a smile, and my heart sings at the moon.
But I’d give anything to have her here.

Window Nine (iv)

2010-06-26T02:22:00.006+01:00

A small note was posted through my window today; there is now a smile beneath the bandages.

Cerulean Walls

2010-06-21T14:22:00.008+01:00

This morning I awoke with a smile on my face, because The Librarian appeared in my dreams. Whilst she is away my heart is constantly unravelling, but I am full of childlike anticipation, because soon she will return to Shallow Window.
Of course I miss her physical presence, but touching in dreams is so much better than not touching at all. And I know that they are sure to grant my loving wish.

Today I am full of joy; I love this position in front of the panes. Although I enjoy removing the bandages, from time to time, there is no way I’d ever give this up. If The Scrybe must hide to see it all, then so be it.

And well, sitting in place, the windows are lit up as usual. But there are many I cannot stare at right now. Number eleven, with its flashing red light, calls out for regular attention, and, although the views are all so intriguing, I have to remain focused on the most urgent.

And so, to eleven I return. Beneath the melting mango sorbet in the sky, my hand will flourish across the pages, keeping record.

Also, I’d love anyone local to join me, in listening to the "Whispers in Shallow Window". So exciting!

Horned Puffin

2010-06-07T01:11:00.018+01:00

It has been quite some time since I last wrote you, or at least it feels that way. So much has been going on, up in Shallow Window, and I apologise for neglecting my duties at this small desk beneath the panes.

Amongst other things, it was nice to climb down on Friday and meet with a few fellow bloggers. Such pleasant individuals, I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and it was good to feel accepted; well worth removing the bandages for. Special thanks must go to ArtSparker.

And then: the librarian and the record keeper.
The most wonderful movement has taken place, something I wasn’t even sure was possible. The sun has finally risen, and The Scrybe is no longer alone.

We met in the underground tunnels, which connect this place to the library I mentioned in my last entry. The both of us were full of words and longing, and a hope that eventually the dark matter would collapse, so that we could finally meet face-to-face.
Sweet rapture; it did.

I should perhaps let you know a little about her, but I’m afraid my words will fail to do her brilliance justice. So let me just say that I love her, both with the bandages on, and without.
Of course saying goodbye was painful, but I am full of joy in the knowledge that she exists, and because I know I will see her again soon.
And now, in between keeping records and staring through the windows, as is my duty, I dream of a far away place, somewhere out in the woods; a secret hideaway, to share with the other (also better) half of my being.

Ah, two of the panes are lit up, both eleven and nine. And so, with a song in my heart, I return.

Weave

2010-05-21T14:22:00.006+01:00

Between you and I, the pictures in eleven have become so intense that, I have to admit, it’s nice to escape from time to time.
For this reason I’m grateful to have found a series of underground tunnels, which lead out of here and to a nearby library, owned by a good friend of mine. It’s the most wonderful place to spread out and relax, and the blueberry muffins are divine.

It’s good to be at this desk again, and I can see the moving pictures in window nine are starting to take shape magnificently. How pleasing it is when a once cloudy glass becomes clear; so very very exciting!

Uh oh, there’s that alarm again, so long!

Fading

2010-05-10T14:22:00.005+01:00

This weekend I loosened the bandages, and exited through one of the panes, rather than the door I usually search for and use. Window nine, to be precise, and it was wonderful and dreamy and green.
My night time wonderings had been filled with knife throwing ghosts; it felt good to climb down, and finally have tangible company. To say I enjoyed myself would be an understatement.
That being said, I’m glad to be back here; although I’m unsure how long I can go on avoiding the flashing red light, above number eleven.

And it was nice to receive a small note, via carrier pigeon, in the early hours of yesterday morning. The note led me to consider my current diet of memories and belief. Do you remember?
Living on memories is fine for now, but what will happen when there are no stores left to devour? If this sounds at all melancholy forgive me; it’s just a few words to explain how much I would love to create some more, with her.

The light is still flashing, a small alarm has begun to ring with it; and so, farewell, eleven it is then.

Window Nine (iii)

2010-05-09T04:00:00.003+01:00

Waking Dawn//Window Eleven

2010-05-05T02:22:00.004+01:00

I really hope I have more than nine lives; I’m destroying myself again. ▲

Lunatic

2010-05-04T02:22:00.007+01:00

I can’t stand the hangover, which never fails to arrive, the morning after a large dose of determination. Why are short periods of resolve always followed by feelings of desperation and anguish?
It has been raining, the panes are clouded over, and I’m struggling to get a grip on all that is before me. It’s hard to keep records when one cannot see clearly.

“My dear love...”
Communicating with her has been very much like speaking to a brick wall of late, or rather a shadow cast onto a brick wall. I’m lucky if I get a wave from the distance, which means hoping for actual words is optimistic, bordering on preposterous. I can’t help but feel that I deserve more.

You see, I may be a bandaged non-entity, but that doesn’t make me impervious to desire and emotion.
I’d like to be familiar with what love feels like. (I apologise if I’ve made that sound too clinical, perhaps ‘I just want to be loved’ would be better, but I’m uncertain about the self-pity attached to that particular way of phrasing it.)

And it’s hard for me to get the message across from up here, in Shallow Window, with the great ocean of reality separating The Scrybe from the rest of existence. I’ve tried messages in bottles, but I have my doubts regarding their reliability.

Oh my, did I just refer to myself in the third person? Joining the long list of illeists, which apparently started all the way back with Julius Caesar, can’t be a good thing; I’ll have to keep a check on it, make sure it doesn’t happen again.

And then there’s the realisation that friendships always sink, just before I close the door.

Divide

2010-04-30T14:22:00.003+01:00

Throughout life I expect I will make my fair share of mistakes, many of them tragic and/or ridiculous. But I’m determined that missing out on you will not be one of them.

Sigh

2010-04-26T14:22:00.001+01:00

When I woke up, I heard a knocking down below. Leaning out, I noticed a small cat sitting on the ledge of one of the windows (I forget which, perhaps number six); it was scampering about, trying to catch a butterfly in its paws. But it didn’t stay very long; after taking one look at me, it first screeched and then scarpered.
I get the feeling these bandages cause me to appear untrustworthy, or unwelcoming, or both. But what can be done about it? This is how I was delivered, how I arrived in Shallow Window. I remember them muttering something about social constructs, before leaving; maybe I should have paid more attention.

And, if I’m honest, the incident with the cat has caused me to feel a little troubled. I know I’ve raised these questions before, and I’m grateful for the friend who said I could be better off without it, but sometimes I long for a deeper sense of self; it could be the anchor which ties us to existence, which tethers us in time. Without self is it possible to belong?

Looking at my inhuman hands, lacking simian crease and fingerprints, I wonder how the cat’s fur would have felt against my palms, had I the chance to stroke it.
However, that opportunity has passed, and the window has closed with it. Right now another pane has snatched my attention; I want to reawaken the fantasies in number eleven.
But I’m unsure if it’s possible to return from that journey again; so instead I’ll sit here, daydreaming, listening to a sunny song on loop.

Release

2010-04-19T14:22:00.004+01:00

I ventured out this weekend; beyond this room, with all its mirrors and windows, that I call home. It was a pleasant journey beyond the panes, and I have returned, albeit with a slightly dented ego, feeling that the belly-full of warm memories was well worth it.

Every time I head out, I always go with the feeling that they could call me back to Shallow Window at any time. I’m always on standby, ready to leave the second I’m recalled. I’m also anxious of being locked out, so I always carry the key she gave me; regularly checking my pocket, to make sure it’s still there.
But the call never comes, and eventually I stumble back of my own accord; happy for the experience, but delighted to be where I belong.

A few of the windows are lit up, one in particular has caught my eye; but I’ll have to leave it for the time being. I still have a couple of scenes to rewrite.

Pause

2010-04-13T02:22:00.011+01:00

Hello friends, Shallow Window’s resident record keeper here, enjoying another brief intermission.

With no responsibilities to tie me down, I spent a large chunk of today away from the panes, marvelling at the many wonders of spring. My favourite moment was when a couple of Blue Tits visited the garden below my window, and blessed me with a cheerful sounding song.
It is warmer now; no need for mugs of soup, earmuffs, or thick woolly socks. Do I miss the cold and the snow? Perhaps a little, for its beauty, but I’m glad the sun has returned; it makes me want to do a happy dance.

“The differences between autistic and artistic: r u”, is a sentence I heard earlier today, which made me smile.
I often wonder when they’ll stop using the word disorder, and replace it with something more hopeful. For example, ‘neurodiversity’ isn’t nearly so frightening.
So often the words normal and abnormal are used as sticks to beat people over the head with. But I love diversity, the mother of beauty; she makes life worth living.

Which makes me wonder: is the search for beauty life’s purpose? Does life even have a purpose? Should it?

And so yes, I’m sitting here now; a smile beneath the bandages, as I enjoy the music and memories in window twelve. Twiddling my thumbs, patiently waiting for a note, which is sure to arrive soon, from her.

Whirl

2010-04-10T01:45:00.009+01:00

With the first few days of filming over I have a few moments spare, free time to use as I please; of course I’ll spend it in front of the panes.
I’ve missed it here, sat in my favourite seat in Shallow Window, and regret that I haven’t had much time to visit my neighbours; all of whom I hope are doing well, with their own threads and braids.

The shoot has spun by in a blur of beautiful images, twitching to life intermittently before my eyes. The crew is a wonderful and talented team of individuals, each of whom I am proud to work with. And it is with a great amount of excitement that I am anticipating the next few scheduled shooting days.
Of course there are preparations to be made before hand, all of which I will undertake joyfully; splitting myself into smaller parts if necessary.

Ah! Must go, the hope in window three has returned.

Window Nine (ii)

2010-04-09T10:19:00.002+01:00

Window Nine (i)

2010-04-04T03:08:00.006+01:00

Whisper...

Envelope

2010-03-29T14:22:00.017+01:00

Last night, as I took an hour-long blink in front of the windows, after returning from a leisurely walk, a note was posted under my door.
It was there at my feet when I uncovered my eyes, and, as I picked it up, ghostly music began to play; its origins, both the note and the music, were indiscernible.
I’m holding it in my hands now, wondering who posted it; it could have been them (the ambiguous shadows who put me here). If so, it would have been nice if they’d shown themselves; I still have no idea what they look like.

The words, printed on headed paper, have an official feel to them. To spare you the tedium I’ll summarise its contents, rather than relaying in full.
People, lights and cameras will be arriving in Shallow Window this weekend. I have a hectic week ahead. Preparations are to be made for a short film which is to be shot here.
And my reaction to this, to what I assume is an order from my superiors?
Of course I am filled with excitement at the prospect of company, and eager to get the film finished so that I can share it with you.

As the note instructs, I will get started tomorrow.
Until then I’ll spread myself out comfortably; wishing that the pair of feet I can see in the mirror belonged to her.

Tears

2010-03-24T14:22:00.012Z

Yesterday, whilst thinking about androgyny, I was certain I’d heard a sound, a hollow murmur coming from outside; perhaps someone was coming up the stairs to see me.
But, whilst trying to head out, I discovered the exit had been moved, making it impossible to discern where, or whom, the sound was coming from. And once I’d finally rediscovered the opening it was too late. Peering outside I’d not found what I was looking for; the pleasant plinks of spring had replaced it.

Staring up at a clock with no hands, facing a window filled with many, I became swamped by feelings of self-pity and woe; wondering why me? Could they not have chosen someone else for this commission?
The shuffling outside had stirred my latent longing for company; the desire to have my heart returned to me, to once again form a whole with her.

You see it feels so isolated at times, up here in Shallow Window, with only the moon for company, waiting for the zipper to open up; it’s inevitable that loneliness will occasionally creep out of the solitude and grasp me.
I hope you’ll agree that my feelings of despondence are at least a little understandable. But, it’s nothing to worry about, thankfully they're only infrequent, and never stay very long.

Now, full of enthusiasm, and with a light heart, I am looking out of a different window. Entertained by wonderful new words, like axolotl and gossamer, my self-pity has been put aside and replaced once again, by my insatiable passion for the panes.

Although, ever since that rustling out on the stairway, I’ve half been expecting them to send for me.

Whisper

2010-03-19T02:22:00.009Z

I’m still awake; eyes fixed on the panes, on the lookout for ideas, surrounded by shadows and eerie voices.
I’ve decided to leave my concerns regarding self behind, at least for the time being, and just enjoy myself in front of the windows.

As usual there is much going on below; it’s a stretch to take it all down. That being said, it’s a privilege to be up here. I’d not give-up my commission, as record keeper, for anything.

I have a camera trained on the girl in window nine, hopefully it will pick up something interesting.
I wonder if cameras are allowed up here; they didn’t leave any instructions, concerning recording equipment. I’ll take my chances.

Although it’s pleasant to surface for air like this, from time to time, down below is where I feel most at home; I just love the excitement of it all. In fact it’s about time to head back now, and sink into those currents of spontaneity.
Here I go, trees and shrubs beware! I'm tumbling down the hill again.

Seconds

2010-03-12T02:22:00.008Z

Very little self exists up here, but there is something which remains. As I sit, looking down at the man staring through the grille, my thoughts are on her once again.

It has been a while since I last saw her; a long time since we sat, over glasses of wine, considering the fallen foliage, which was once our love.
Since then I have undergone a change, a metamorphosis; I have the records to look after, the windows take up most of my time.
But, although my identity has been fragmented, the love within my heart has remained still and untouched.
And, as pathways begin to open up, I still have the same hope; that someday soon she’ll join me.

So here I am, gazing over at a pair of empty seats, wondering if our heartbeats can once again be harmonised. Refusing to believe, for one second, that some things are just not meant to be.

Submission

2010-03-10T14:22:00.002Z

Checking back I can see that she had just stirred, was waking up, when I left you.
Sadly, although she had indeed opened her eyes, it turned out to be nothing more than a false awakening; a dream within a dream, inside a nightmare.
And so here I am, sitting in position again, eagerly awaiting that moment. Hopefully Dawn will come soon.

Whilst browsing through Melanie Pullen’s High Fashion Crime Scenes, earlier today, I came upon this; just imagine my surprise. Is (s)he a relative? A predecessor? I’d love to find out; I have so many questions I’d like to ask. But how can I go about making contact?

The keepers of this place have only visited once, since they put me up here. But, if I want answers, I suppose it would be logical to go to them first.
Next time I see them (if I see them) I’ll be sure to ask about my previous identity; the details have all become muddy and obscure.
And I’ve forgotten what they look like; it all seems so long ago. I found a strange photograph, stuck beneath the window ledge; could it be connected?

Yesterday somebody asked me what I want to be when I grow up. It was then that I realised how little self exists up here, in front of the panes. I mean, how old am I?
I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, let alone how long I’ve been in existence. And then, who am I? Gender is also an issue.

Should these things concern me? Now that I’m up here, Shallow Window’s resident record keeper, perhaps questions about self are irrelevant; it’s something I’ll have to consider.
And, whilst waiting for her to wake up again, maybe I’ll take another look at the optimism in window two.

Suspend

2010-03-08T14:21:00.004Z

I dreamt about fish again last night; I wonder what it means. Perhaps I should pull myself away from the windows, and do some research.
But I’m expecting something to happen in window number nine, and I don’t want to risk missing it.

As usual I spent a great deal of the weekend twiddling my thumbs; wondering if I should go out, beyond the corners. Very little was happening through the windows, the panes were dull and grey; to be honest it had begun to feel a little lonely.
In order to unwind I’d unbound my ears, and had been greeted by a deeply oppressive lack of sound.
But more distressing than the silence, up here in Shallow Window, had been the intermittent whispers; never quite clear enough to make out any of the words.
Last night the din, if it can be called that, had become so unbearable, that I’d headed desperately for the exit, without once looking back.

Away from the panes, like a child cast out into the wilderness, I found myself wading in a stream of consciousness; standing amongst a crowd of strangers and friends, offering smiles to whoever looked my way, and counting how many were returned.

Although paranoid about my own social inadequacies, I find it exciting to meet new people. In fact if I wasn’t so shy, without the bandages on, I’d make it my mission to discover the working mechanisms behind every single one.

Ah, and now it’s time to go; she’s finally waking up.

The Breeze Begins

2010-03-04T02:21:00.011Z

I’ve been thinking about her again, whilst sitting here, with the moon as my only companion. I’ve been thinking about little squares and lingering embraces. I just never seem able to express myself convincingly, not where she is concerned.
In truth I wish she’d join me, up here in Shallow Window; I wonder if that’s even possible. I hope so.

It’s been a frantic day at the panes, exciting, with so much going on below. Unable to decide, I ended up training an eye on each of the windows (both three and nine). It took some getting used to, looking into two separate locations at once, but eventually I adjusted. It made for a wonderful experience.
Admittedly the recordkeeping has suffered, on account of my curiosity, but I’ll catch up on it later.

The other day a friend showed me Synesthesia. It made me thirst for colour, and lots of it; my search landed me at Kandinsky’s Composition VII. Not a bad place to sit and rest for a while.

This friend is an intriguing individual, an awkward cuss carefully perched on the frame of my window. I love it when (s)he sits there, chirping away.
So far our contact has only been digital, but dark matter will soon collapse, and the curtains will be pulled back. This makes me very happy, although, at the same time, perhaps a little anxious.

Oh my, is that the time? I really should get started on those records.

Indecision

2010-03-03T14:21:00.002Z

Today window number nine is lit up, at the same time as number three. The pictures in both are vivid, and I am unsure which to look into.
If only I had two pairs of eyes, and four hands.

Exit Wounds

2010-03-01T14:21:00.005Z

Staring through the frameless window again. The sun is out, there are no clouds forecast; today my viewing promises to go undisturbed.

For the moment I can see two figures standing against the horizon. One is speaking to the other, but the sound is unclear. I’ll have to resort to lip reading; something I’ve never been particularly good at, but needs must; I’ll give it a try.

“I wrapped myself up. Like a child I imagined that if I couldn’t see you, then in turn you’d be unable to see me. But I was wrong, binding my eyes was toddler-folly; whether or not I cast a shadow, you are still capable of tracing my outline. And you have known me all along.”

Pretty good, for lip reading; perhaps I’m not so bad at it after all. The words he never said, to the woman who never heard them.
A regret? Personally I don’t believe in them; there is nothing broken which cannot be fixed.

I have to admit, it was worth finding the exit Saturday night. Beneath a full moon Hildur signed the slip of paper I handed to her, and my heart melted. The puddle probably still remains. Melodramatic? Maybe just a little.
And once wasn’t enough, after the first exit I quickly developed a taste for it. The following evening it was pleasant to again head down from the highest point, and stumble into a local gallery, to discover the tremendous potential within.

But how long was I in my bunker, endlessly staring at the same window (ref. window #11), filling page after page with optimism, and leaving no stone unturned, in search of inspiration?
I forget; time flies.
I’d also forgotten to tend to the garden, and now it is wild; the overgrowth must be cut back, a messy tangle of green has spread out where love once stood.

But, enough prattling, something is taking place below.

Window Three (ii)

2010-02-27T02:21:00.016Z

‘Out, she says, push the boat out, further than the eye can see. And for the most part I’ll not resist. I’ll ignore the foreboding winds, which creep around the bay and leap up to greet the ocean.’

It is demanding, holding the surrounding reality together. The room behind me dissolves; staring at the windows takes concentration. But the fingers keep moving, although typing when the tips are cold isn’t easy.

For quite some time I’ve had the feeling that I’m not alone in this room, but, for now, the shadowy figures have refrained from showing themselves completely. Plus, I have to admit, I look over my shoulder infrequently, lest I miss out on something important.

No, that isn’t entirely true. A few weeks ago I managed to catch a glimpse of someone straight on, if only for a second or two. One of Beksiński’s nightmares? Whatever it was, I’d rather not see it again. Since it showed its face my explorations, about this room in Shallow Window, have become even more infrequent.

I’m looking around now though; at the record player, which I wish was an old phonograph, like the one in Grouper’s Hold the Way. Does music sound better coming from an old phonograph? I don't know.
Above the player hangs a mirror, which, like everything else in here, will eventually show itself to not be a mirror at all; another window I suspect. Perhaps I should begin to label them.

Through the looking-glass. ArtSparker’s love of Alice has reminded me of Valerie and Her Week of Wonders; perhaps I’ll watch it later, if I manage to pull myself away from the panes. And, having finished with Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita for the second time, maybe I should dig up Carroll’s Wonderland.

But for now I will remain in front of window three. I like this window; it’s full of colourful anticipation and promise.

Window Three (i)

2010-02-26T14:21:00.004Z

Sun splashing across
the face of
a serpentine river

Removing the bandages,
full of optimism,
I stoop in for a closer look

Lorelei, the waves
impede your gaze

But, with a little hope,
we can always
part the waters

I raise my eyes and arms
to meet the sky

And wouldn’t it be grand
to fall together?

Dream Incubation

2010-02-23T02:21:00.006Z

Here I am again, sat in my favourite place, cool and snug at the summit. I’m pretty sure I’ve said these words before, they remind me of a poem written a while back; I believe it was called Stasis.

I did actually manage to go out today, only not very far. Most of the evening has been spent at the windows, where I am still sitting now.
A glance to my right, something is taking place in window number thirteen; on account of the darkness, it is difficult to make out. From what I can see the goings on closely resemble Fever Ray’s Triangle Walks. An unsettling blend of darkness and light; a group of shadows gathered around a large table. I’d do anything to make out their faces, even just the one would do.
I’d like something to hold onto, a thread to follow, something new and never-before-seen. But it seems it isn’t to be, at least not tonight; I’ll check back again in the morning.

It’s usual for things to work this way, up here in Shallow Window, often I will have to stare at a particular porthole for weeks, before the picture becomes clear enough for me to describe what is happening.

It was the same with window six; it had been an incredibly long time before I’d finally realised it was nothing more than a mirror. The faceless creature staring back had been none other than I, The Scrybe.

I don’t remember when the transformation took place; even now I find it difficult to come to terms with. But worrying is pointless, some things we cannot change. And by some things, of course I mean reality.

Fingers crossed for some lucid dreams; all the old reality checks are back in place. In fact tonight I’ll go to sleep listening to Jacaszek’s Lament; it always brings good dreams. And by good, I mean those with depth; so real they can be touched.

Shaking Dawn

2010-02-22T14:21:00.004Z

It is cold up here, at the highest point of the furthest ridge; perhaps a woolly jumper and a mug of something warm.

I’m back at the windows again, watching the scenes unravel beyond them. Some twenty-two moons ago I took it upon myself to transcribe my favourite view. Window number eleven had caught my eye; a young woman capable of encasing the man she loves inside her dreams. But that window has turned black, become overcast, the clouds block the view; they have all gone to sleep.

I now have a choice; I can either leave this place, this room with too many mirrors and doors to count, or I can choose another window. Number three seems colourful enough, and in number seventeen I can see a pair of individuals leaping through puddles (remember that scene in Mary Poppins; the one where they all jump into Bert’s pavement art?).

But then maybe I should go out after all, and explore the valley below. After staying in for so long, it’s hard to motivate myself to do otherwise. Thankfully I have a show to go to on Saturday night; Hildur Guðnadóttir plays the cello, and my heart breaks. Yes, I’ll head out, I’ll climb down from my ridge today; I can always sit and stare through the windows later, when I get back.

If I remember correctly I fell in love the last time I was down there, amongst the living. In fact, thinking about her now, there is a tremor in my chest; like a snapped twig in the back garden, it has disturbed the peaceful silence.
How frustrating it is, to be in love with a woman in limbo. I often think that perhaps she will never love me in return. That sounds like defeatism, it also whiffs of ambivalence; it is neither.
And I wonder: how can I leave this place? I forget which door is the exit.

An awful lot of eyes, and I’m prattling now; it’s how it starts. I’ll be distracted by another window soon, and never leave at all.

Unfastened

2010-02-22T02:21:00.001Z

The red-headed spider scuttles into the corner, walking sideways like a crab. Dawn wipes the cobwebs from her eyes and shakes the shade of sleep which still clings to her. Stifling a yawn she rises from the bed, keeping as quiet as possible because she doesn’t want to wake him. A chilly wind, whistling in through a small gap between glass and frame, has caught her attention and, heading over to the window, she is dismayed by the cloudy sky beyond it. Glancing over at the timepiece on the adjacent wall, looking up as the seconds and minutes decay, she attempts to distance herself from the gloom and is enveloped by delicate reminiscences of her father.

Shallow Window

2010-02-09T12:51:00.004Z

But how long can she keep hir locked inside her dreams; how far until (s)he reaches the boundaries of her mind, the very edges of her imagination?
Eventually (s)he will have to wake up.

Aubade

2010-02-08T03:14:00.012Z

Nibbling on
the branches of
an irritable wet blanket

Struck down
torn apart
but determined

Longing for
the peaceful clutter
where the kisses
show their petals

Opening up
one by one
on the face of the woman I love

Little Bairn

2010-02-06T02:36:00.005Z

A couple of corners
One fawning over
another collection of
shadows in the doorway

The impression of a small hand in clay
A fragile fence put up
to fend off the grains of sand
in an hourglass

If I could take away the pain
forego my useless frame
then I’d untie
every single twisted knot and bow

Hope

2010-02-04T01:03:00.002Z

Dawn will come in the morning

Hullabaloo

2009-12-21T02:22:00.003Z

Here I stand,
an icy wind behind
the broken glasses in the hallway
And the swift untying
of a shoeless shoelace
is a momentary lapse
with far too many complications
for me to dip my foetal fingers
in your purse

Stone Circle

2009-12-16T14:39:00.001Z

The night when my fears,
were lost against the backdrop,
of a dark sky,
embedded with pearls and dandelions.

Mirror Box

2009-12-11T02:06:00.001Z

Freestanding phantom heart
The lost limb of my
Sensations of
itching
and imperfection

I cower here
beneath the bedclothes
In the hope that
dawn returns

Hibernation

2009-11-26T04:02:00.001Z

Thank you for the whispers and flares,
which tether my ghostly kite to the ground.

grotto

2009-11-20T14:28:00.000Z

Loneliness is a terror he has no rapport with.

Candelabra

2009-11-13T03:42:00.005Z

Sugar topped sandcastle turret,
in a room where the evergreens grow
I’ll take my seat by the window,
looking out at a blanket of snow

How inside of the glass is a shadow
full of mirrors, and portholes, and doors
Where the sunshine is crooked, and narrow
like the whispers she holds in her jaws

For in one of my earliest memories
beating down, with its tail on my lips
I was sat in the cove of a cup nest,
with a mouth full of feathers and fists

re: awakening

2009-11-12T15:50:00.009Z

Along with the steady wind
breaking into the bathroom
through a small crack
in the window frame
I can hear the kettle whistling
to signal its impatience

Over warm mugs
of weary sunshine
tenderly I undergo
something of a rebirth

But not to the crashing
of drum and symbol
as had previously been imagined
For subtlety is queen here
and obscurity is king

Cloudy as always
the water is cold
A pinky finger exposes
the many hidden fables
behind the steamy glass
And a snapped twig on the lawn
announces your arrival

Filling the gaps
using tired old fictions
is a tedious affair
And every time you look at me
I despair

Exhaustion

2009-11-02T02:22:00.000Z

Every word they speak promises fulfillment, and every kiss they share threatens confusion.

Leotard

2009-10-23T03:32:00.000+01:00

Asterisks across the deck
from port to stern
A pair of hearts
one for each gill
pressed firmly against the sides of a mulberry branch

Last night I grew tired of waiting
sitting cross-legged
playing the tarabuka
alone

And so I dunked my head
beneath the surface
of the sea
Eyes grainy and sour with salt

For this dance to become a practised one
dark matter must collapse
and form a single glowing whole
within the bed sheets

Diagnosis

2009-10-11T18:06:00.000+01:00

She often finds herself pressing against something cold and hard,
in order to discover how it's all being held together.

creeper/elixir

2009-10-05T03:54:00.001+01:00

She thinks of sucking him,
like baby to teat
She wishes to drink the pearls,
to swallow them deep down inside

Until the seeds grow into a giant beanstalk
and the leaves force their way through her open cavities
Until the plant grows outwards from within her,
the flowers and branches piercing her eyes, ears, nose and mouth
Until the roots escape from rectum and cervix,
ascending delightfully as they do so

But it would not cause her pain,
only strawberry tickles
and shrill peppery orgasms

Running Water

2009-10-03T01:17:00.001+01:00

The scarecrow of her existence is unconvincing
So the words peck at her eyes and tear away the straw

Corners

2009-10-02T01:25:00.000+01:00

Bitter concrete smiles
and slyly wincing eyelashes

It sweeps over the auditorium
like the poison of Hypnos

And yet it lights every folded corner of her being

//cuts

2009-09-28T02:22:00.010+01:00

The trees sprout outwards from either side of the serpentine pathway; they stretch upwards in unorthodox bristles, wriggling about deviously in the agitated heure bleue.
And she shuffles along with no real urgency, tentatively negotiating her way over dangerous looking tree roots and shrubs.
She is in no hurry to reach her destination and has decided to take a rather circuitous route through the small forest at the corner of town. This scenic route allows her the chance to appreciate nature, in all of its twilight glory.
The air is thick with the scents of geraniums, trilliums and violets and, heaving a sigh of relief, she allows herself to be nullified by the allure of their promises.
All is calm and peaceful; the wind has stilled its whisper. The perpetual growl of traffic has been vanquished somewhere off in the distance. The only sound to be heard is that of her own heart, as it beats softly inside her chest.
Even the birds have halted their song; there must be a storm on the way.
It has begun to rain.
Standing beneath a large magnolia tree, allowing its cuplike flowery fingers to protect her from the shower, she looks up at the cluster of clouds, which have been pencilled in neatly against the steady watermelon sky.
She is happy to be alone.
And she no longer feels sleepy or glacial.

Coitus Reservatus

2009-09-24T04:06:00.004+01:00

They are a pair of flexible willow switches
Precious and tangled
Joined together in an intergalactic reverie
And when they dream
They often dream of sex

Quarantine

2009-09-21T14:54:00.004+01:00

To stand on the edge of a rock pool
and not actually jump in

To hold firm on the threshold
a voyeur refusing to enter

To eavesdrop on life itself
listening to all of its whispers
and unravelling all of its mysteries

But to never open up
and share the journey with others

Tarrying

2009-09-17T15:11:00.002+01:00

When the dawn
Will rest its head against the shore
And in solitary rain dance
Turn to sleep

My hands will move beyond the lip
Above the nipple of its breast
And start to weave upon a needle
Thinly thread

And when the core, it opens up
For you it sighs
It moves in stutters once the shudders
Turn to gasps

A snapping efficacious mist
Is knotted in a feather bow
As within a shallow open window
I reside

Tarry

2009-09-17T02:14:00.003+01:00

When the dawn
Will rest its head
And turn to sleep

Beyond the lip
Above the nipple
Of its breast

I’ll move in stutters
Once the shudders
Turn to gasps

Then my heart
It opens up
For you it sighs

And starts to weave
Upon a needle
Thinly thread

Inside a shallow
Open window
I reside

New Haven

2009-09-08T01:38:00.014+01:00

(for Melanie)

Removed and afar
In an obscure notional harbour
Filled with a fluent sandy radiance
Beneath a bewitching sheet of cirrus
The sunlight glimmers faintly
As it opens its idle eyes

And those ten thousand misty shades
Of copal and persimmon
Are honeyed, careful and aurous
Kissing airily against
The lively pair of dancers
Half-stepping in the amber flames

For here is the secret place
Where glorious dreams are formed
To the sounds of a Hardanger fiddle
Scattered about haphazard
Like autumnal leaves
Across the distant glowing alcove

And treading softly across book covers
On orange peel footsteps
Unperturbed by the absence
Of reflections and shadows
The ghosts and phantasms appear
In a tangle of pellitory lace

It causes us to shut our eyelids
Give in to the lucidity
Marooned and sedated
By a vague and subtle memory
Searching amongst the foliage
For a place to accept and call home

Judder Bar

2009-09-05T01:14:00.009+01:00

A lonesome moonlit walk
Where the grass dips and waves
Its sinewy silver fingers
In the breeze
And the trees stand enigmatically
Like great shadows
Against the Prussian blue sky

A couple lay across the concrete path
Locked in an embrace
Unaware of my curiosity
And bated breath
As I stepped over
The delusive mound of their longing

And in this darkness
Only Abyssinian eyes could see
What my imperfect heart
Refused to recognise
Through these inconsolable
Copper wire cataracts

The pith becomes frail
Puerile and fragmented
Struck down by a bitterness
So harrowing and robust
That I fear these tears
Will never be enough

Spilling

2009-08-29T02:50:00.016+01:00

An ecstatic intonation
Conjures up a dream
Long since hidden carefully
And slipped in between friction and air

And that day we stood taking shelter
Beneath my favourite folding willow tree
I imagined I was tumbling downhill

It must have been the rain,
Which caused me to become so maudlin and dreamy
Or it could have been the arrow,
Which cracked out with assurance across the sky

But then I know
It was just the beating of a moth’s wings
As it hovered gently,
Wavering innocently over some other continent,
Unaware of the error in its stirrings

Origami

2009-08-24T03:27:00.001+01:00

Two folds of paper
Braided in the center
And tied together with string,
A crease formed just below
The joining of the fingers

Insinuated warmth
Knotted soft illicit gloves
And my little clove of scarlet
How can the turn be borrowed?
All pacified and washed ashore

Spinnaker

2009-08-24T03:26:00.001+01:00

I stand in an oval arc
Where the only noise is nonsense,
And dull as colobura markings
Do the sandy seconds dwindle,
Waiting for that instant patiently

I found my epidermis coat
Just dangling from a peg for hanging
In a darkroom filled with ghosts and oil lamps
Beneath a daydream filled with water
Where my longest lusts are dry and threadbare

And the heart inside is hollow.

(fertig)

2009-08-21T03:10:00.006+01:00

When I dream I
And when my eyes are closed I
There is a shining light of you
But when I open up
Unravelling
Withdrawn
My cup runneth over
And empty
No more ink inside the well

Oneironaut

2009-08-21T01:53:00.002+01:00

Today was the day I replaced the hope that you would love me with a ________________.

Code Trauma

2009-08-20T02:42:00.001+01:00

Does innocence clash with intelligence?

, and maybe even beating.

2009-08-17T04:33:00.006+01:00

Over the sides of a softly trembling knoll
Where the grass grows wildly in knots
There is the smallest angle of happiness
And a river encompassed by froth

Here the wind stoops and brushes in earnest
On a collection of neat musky shrubs
And we sleep in the wake of a turtle
Eyes half-shut, full of circles and love

And beside all those tall reckless storksbills
Is a cluster of oleander, which whirls
And the fingers of sweet complication
Hold and cling, turn and swing, fold and twirl

…And I am sure there is something warm inside
…I am sure something flutters within

Snow

2009-08-13T01:26:00.001+01:00

When a single embrace is greater than the sum of seven times seven thousand figure traces.

Edges Folded

2009-08-12T16:25:00.000+01:00

But though the fence beyond the green is lost
And clinches longed for dead beneath the gloom
The hill is covered by a sheet of frost
A heart so cramped we struggle to make room
To conjure up a state of reverie
For love and hope a candle sleeps inside
That passion always fleeting, soon to be
How slow the yawning sun will bend and rise
And when those tricky gremlins loose the strings
What once was far can now appear beside
Watch for the morning; listen as she sings
When just to break the silent night she cries

We gaze beyond that mountain, and the hill
Soaked by the dew and keeping very still

Stasis

2009-08-06T02:52:00.002+01:00

Rocking chair sway
Here I stand again
Glued to the highest point
Stuck once more at the zenith
Where lip presses firm against tile

Complicated elements
I have lost myself again
Silent at the pinnacle
Cool and snug at the summit
And I am unrecognisable and fractious and glib

?error

2009-07-31T03:10:00.003+01:00

Silver bellied fly orchid
I will ignore the box of tissues on the floor

And I will look beyond the fissure in the wall
As it hangs and shudders over your shoulder
Just behind your distant gaze

And I will ignore the defiance
Of the many nodes inside those pigtails,
Porcelain blue baubles at the end of each

But,
How can I ignore the purple blemish
On the scruff and passage
And the gaping garish wrinkling of your hem?

Muddy Puddles

2009-07-24T01:22:00.002+01:00

With my vision obscured
By the sheet of gauze before me
I enter into a room with seven chambers

Thursdays have never been brilliant
But today I will spend my time tripping over twigs and logs
Waiting for that moment when her shoulder glints and makes the bow break

My desk is covered with lint, paperclips and empty envelopes
A whispering voice tells me that reality is only another closed novella
So I stop. Just long enough to touch my cheek and wish that it was warm with her kiss

Tinted

2009-07-22T00:33:00.006+01:00

The head of a cat stuck beneath a lampshade. The toes of an elephant peeking out from beneath the curtains.
Siamese twins, one strangely larger than the other. Asymmetric walls with long sloping ceilings.
Grass for carpet, paper for slippers.

The setting is a collection of razor sharp teeth; it nips and gnashes away at ankle and shin, ferocious as a shark.

At times like these I yearn to once again have falling or train dreams.
At times like these I wish for her return.

Exploding Head Syndrome

2009-07-21T02:34:00.012+01:00

Pepperboxes drawn at dawn,
when cotton strikes against pride
And a mass melting and retracting
causes panic in the marshlands

I wish to slip inside of foxglove,
ingest and burst into delirium
Beneath the shade of our favourite
but often comatose willow tree

Yet the piercing brazen hippocampus
is shrill and dripping with delight

Just today she spun in circles,
motifs and accents in her hair
And the toes they glowed with ankles
shining feathery and perfect

But those shadows in the rooftops
they never waver, never dim
It’s just the fires of a giant
and a tower filled with skin

Or a thematic chorus filled with silence
and floating signs, and complex symbols

It just seems as though we are always competing with one another
When all I want to do is touch

Damp

2009-07-17T01:49:00.003+01:00

Like a bag of broken bones
The silhouette stood torn
And spread apart
On the horizon

(Ignorant rippling fingers
Why do you bend and frolic?

...A grassy knoll of forgetfulness
And a salty pinch of knowledge)

And the love I had dissolved
Like two cups
Of fragile sugar
In a bowl of muddy water

Cue flatline.

Cube

2009-07-08T01:22:00.001+01:00

There are no such thing as opposites; there are only differences.

...sultitan itan

2009-06-24T12:54:00.000+01:00

Outskirts

2009-06-24T12:53:00.000+01:00

I wish that I could fold time.
I miss her.

Dawn

2009-06-08T02:53:00.006+01:00

Said she: If the fall is inevitable then we must prepare for it. We must prepare for what we will find beyond it. That is the most important thing.

Said I: But what is beyond the fall?

Said she: No more light.

Painkillers

2009-06-05T15:36:00.001+01:00

When she cannot concentrate, when the hunger eats away at the lining of her stomach, when it steals away the poetic muck from her center.

Multiple Negation

2009-06-02T15:40:00.002+01:00

Involved in
Taking part in
The evolution of
A half-hearted
Cock-and-bull
Brainless idealism

And is it the responsibility of the ‘correctly functioning’ members, of this flawed and decaying ideology, to eliminate those members deemed to be ‘incorrect and dysfunctional’?

Empty Heads

2009-05-24T03:32:00.002+01:00

Wet Eyeballs

2009-05-21T03:50:00.000+01:00

And she says:

2009-05-21T03:21:00.007+01:00

I could pluck the eyes out of the odious cavities,
in my skull;
for what good are they to me
just swimming around
in a tepid lake of tears
over you?

Diffidence

2009-05-15T03:10:00.004+01:00

Someone said the forked tongue of a hummingbird
Was a myth wrapped up in cloth and soaked in brine
Someone said the feathered pillow down
Has a hand in how the clock can tell the time

But no one told those plasma balls to shine
And no one closed the sky from down below
So luminary iris in the night
With horses set in fairy floss and stone

Be sure to send the abstract harder dove
Be sure the hissing cable was enough
To capture what was art, it was a doubt
And reeds beneath the rug, between the lines

Does candleberry blue tit swallow chimes
For once a poppy always as a seed
The shallow scarlet mutters as she breathes
A sour flavour peppered with distrust

I’ll watch the tides out; washing as she bleeds

...

2009-05-12T03:28:00.000+01:00

Now then: why must we always make fools of ourselves over love?

Parachute

2009-05-10T04:51:00.001+01:00

And sometimes it feels as though my heart would explode into a thousand little firework flashes.

My Favourite Genius

2009-05-07T00:40:00.009+01:00

Even though the distance between us can often seem immense and abstruse; even though it seems elongated and intimidating; a gangly length of defiant vellicating cord
And although at times this life seems like a never-ending thread of lazily yawning sunrises; though at times it causes me to bow deeply before the idler’s throne, full of a waiting and yearning; anticipating that moment when the sun sets; when it disappears furtively beyond the hill, when it vanishes beneath the growling tiger, that is the thick black felt-tip pen horizon
Even so, my hope will always remain; for it is a pollinated star-apple tree; its leaves have golden undersides; they glint and shimmer brightly, they wink at me optimistically, from behind their perpetually twinkling eyelids

And, although the curtains are drawn tight, I know the sky beyond my window is a picture perfect one; I know it is twenty-seven glowing shades of azure, cornflower, ultramarine and midnight
And yes, I do believe.
And I am animated. And I am viable.
Because of you I feel as though the strength of my swiftly galloping heartbeat is powerful enough to break down even the cold viscid darkness of the overbearing and horrible eclipse, which descends like an ossifying mist into the four corners of my dimly lit bedroom

Oh how the imagination is a wild and untamable thing; it tramples all over my bed sheets, it leaves torn pages and scattered feathers in its wake; it hides my shame behind a palm and four fingers; it peers out from behind the dull tired lump of my left hand; it searches for you; and only you

Your kisses were solar flares, they were excited plasma globes, they were soft pink azaleas; they were filled to the brim with tender whispers and bayberry promises
I miss their sweet guava centers; I miss the stimulating piquancy of your honey; I miss the morning dew of your breath
Heaven knows I miss you

And yet, right now I am smiling; it is an eager and elated, far-reaching and optimistic smile; it is as full as the moon; it is open and covered with water; it is a halo, an atmospheric corona
Because the wind is constantly ringing out with the angelic strains of our fluid and all entrancing hymn.

Giglet/Piglet

2009-05-01T00:10:00.001+01:00

The whisk of summer on succulent skin
The taste of winter on frosty fresco breath
Until there is not a moment left
Until the look of resurrection leaves her eyes

But not the hop, leap and recoil of elastic
Rather the first swallows and lilacs,
Of our marching dandelion parade
And the tender vernal oscillations,
Of you.

Whelp

2009-04-30T15:21:00.005+01:00

Heartbreak of mine: you rain down
with virtuoso droplets

Always twice, however often; maybe three times a year
and you scrape the thrombus; with candleberry fingernails

You solidify my, growing tall, candy-apple program
and you: connect the dots

Of my stormy twelvemonth senectitude
and I am lost inside the border; of an inner core

And I: am floating in the middle
Always bloated on the outside; of a swollen vulval blindness
and tangled at the bottom of your puddles