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GardeningThe optimistic imagination of the inner child,
Has begun to slowly wilt.
Adult responsibility pruning the wildness--
Into neat borders and planters.
The lawn mown, set and square.
Wildflowers have no place here…
Dreams mostly committed to the compost heap,
Along with the daisy chains,
A few lucky fragments escaping on dandelion seeds
Weed killer eliminates the remainder.
Goth weekend...A weekend committed to memory,
The solid black behind and solid grey ahead
Of a snail-crawling drive.
The promise of the misted coastline
Winking like fairy-lights..
The fete inside the church,
Confetti-like falling petals,
Its like I time travel and re-tread outfits
Forties glamour, Victorian , futuristic--
The then and the now collide--
Wanders of time gathered.
Fudge, and other treats
No seafood-- no oysters this time,
However, the bottles were steadily emptied
And stacked up.
Fire-walking and bonfires --
there were marshmallows scorched and sticky,
I felt feline in the darkness of the coast
Cages, cigarettes and sand,
Bridges and boats.
Dizzying spirals of interconnected events
Committed to history like fossils in rock,
Restless nights and long days--
Firm friends and no regrets.
Spaceman...They say you dream of floating
When your oxygen runs out--
But you longer want to float.
Dreaming of home for long enough
That when eyelids slip closed
You are there;
The air is fresh,
There are plants and animals and rain--
The ground is solid beneath toes--
You don't want to wake
But you do--
And find yourself behind a visor and see a star-scape,
Then feel that imaginary Terra-firma crumble.
Nothing but the void to hear homesick despairing sobs.
Inner voice too much, to LOUD.
So is the radio static.
So is the silence.
Longing for a place that you can never see again.
Clinging desperately to the air-starved mind delusions.
Feeling something other than sweat and the inside of a sealed suit.
Unable to escape
The faces and places in minds eye
They will all fade out slowly.
You hope the alien world fades first.
Never closer to home than in each fading heartbeat...
DollyEyesI saw how you had been left in a corner,
You had wide-painted-dolly-eyes,
Glassy and glazed over--
Although you were far from drunk.
Your glass was empty.
Giving no emotions out
Reflecting only those around you;
The perfect poker face,
Unable to escape past the bodies
That penned you in,
As every word you spoke was ignored;
The one person beside you
That ought to be listening
Engrossed in vapid chatter.
You love unconditionally
I watch how it's wasted.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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