Look at how the patterns in the faux-clover patch give shape to the nameless. Thimbles full of lichen douse the fire toad on an oak root. I barely oblige the blokey crow amongst shadows toking in the temple of Ruul, spindles of mucus from the bundle he fumes smeared on the crab grass. Sometimes I think of my friends at high noon, preening in the telecommune and swinging like pendulums in the hallway. I use the taproot as a guide and pull my weight in its direction. I lean into the thorn bush, just enough to lose my balance and teeter on the brink of tiny clay cliffs, staring into the starry eyes of a rose hip that’s dried. Swagger to the Funk of the dragon lily. March of the mommy’s boy sworn to the torque of the turbine vibrato. Sheen of the Magnus carousel. Q-pee dolls man the yolk of the panzer.
Let us start a movement of psychotic bliss as we Holler in the name of the crown, shoulders, toes and wrists. Let us submit our shame to the sunshine blade, snuggle, and krumple of a sudden banter, sandals clip clop as we spiral up the staircase . Nothing can dull the burr of the cattails as they scantily graze the quick, clonking woodblocks, nor dumb down chrysanthemum quills as their pluckings staccato are caught stalking nature’s unveiling keys. Sonatina of the Goddess arrives just in time to bathe us in the plummet of her morning mist. Rhythms are carried by a willow wind section in unison with the Autumn curtain rising.
Your love is the wealth of the night fabric, especially when you cry, laugh, and yell at the same time. I am here to steal the scarf of the sky phantom and dance in the pattern it reveals. Don’t ask me why. Just keep your shoulders loose, spin yourself dizzy, eyes glued to the maelstrom mime. I know it seems shifty, but try. Your spirit is the hearth of an ice cavern. Acapella of the whorls strum like mallets upon stalagtite chimes. Run with me on the rooftop tile until the rain pours kisses on our smiles. you can be a sorceress, and I a Samurai. I see us slicing, shadow casting like two witches gone cross-wired, pronouncing the names of spirits that haunt us, drowning in our wishing wells.
Bushido and Isobel tip-toe of a pas a deux, shadows playing as speckles on the promenade. ‘Shido is enthralled by the ho-hum laws of gravity, she entranced by the grope of the wind as if courted by it, both by the scent of the fertile soil and blossom. Hers is the answer to the Troll beckon, his, the sword that shines while cutting the throats of those felt compeled to molest his Wiccan bride. Now you know who whispers in the night.