Mind Tavern

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Dorothy's Year

I don't know how to start an email So I sit, letting the cursor blink for me. Within the glass of my watch Reflects my neighbor's joy For perfumed cards and wrapped tarts Between their muffled phrases I am drawn to the window Against an inch of snow Perhaps, there's a perfect moment When them and these tapes of you Draw your face in the little lights. Tossed the lump of coal into the fireplace Maybe the impish sinned for warmth There's a cloud within me today Because I could never replicate the way My heart and the sky above sunk into your eyes When they saw the slightest jingle, A light strum of your fingers, tapping steadfast Across my nails, pushing my heart in and out Of that little circle of street light, that remains now. Leaves still stop me Especially the ones from decked trees, And on these days of revelries, I am always given a seat on the roads Watching hearts on balloons scramble for gifts, I left yours at home between the crumbli

On an Umbrella With an Oar

These blades of grass Sitting in your pocket Digging through your lap, Rooting their scribbles with chokes Yet you missed the due to post Now you wait for the next train With a ticket you dug out the drain Throwing your pain Hoping the steel poles would stain. Your knees hurt, they're weak, The pregnant lady's in her sixth week, The baby won't ever know your name But you wrap your scars in tape Walk to the end of the rain Apologize to any who gets caught in them My mates said it's enough, be ashamed. The waves come hit your back Your cheek grazes the track The silt coming downstream Turns into the brown of your eyes And the holes in your umbrella Don't seem to capsize your heart. Nice soft focus, the blue skies up above, Rowing in the floods of every dying dove Every unlit campfire left in the grove Littering trash cans with discarded hope Balance is delicate, either end falls to eternity And at the very bottom, with old sleeves muddie

My Note

I'm walking through the mud, making sure that the nose of my shoe buries itself in a temporary grave and then uproots it, to leave a trail for you to find when I go missing. It's cold and some latent bug pleads with me not to holds its breath against the fireplace to cure my sick. And there it strikes a great revelation, that prayer exists because a God is still considerate, men justify their need to refuse. I wonder if I hold all your pictures at my throat because it burns whenever I look at the clouds and let out a sigh. What would happen if I stopped for a minute, let Mama's call at bay for a few more rings and ran to you? Nevertheless, I turn, surprise the old lady, at the shop and at home with my pain, sending my love downwind to another for another. Some ripe children run after the ball, past me. I was told to seek nursing from my bruises, darkened skin and scars. Now, I'm told that I'm allowed a few visits before the bees stop flocking to me anymore. The q

If Borders Could Stop A Sadness

Our fascination with lines sprung from a need to avoid our dotted existence. The biggest secrets are the lessons that are always practised in the opposite way; for how could you fill in the gaps when you're always conditioned to romanticise them. We carry bags whenever we leave because it's impossible to know what we would shed and not all places are as kind as home. But I feel like I'm forgetting something, beyond those two pairs of clothes, outdated cologne and a new toothbrush. I consciously wait for myself to say that some distant future holds promise, that what I don't remember shan't be held against me; but I never owned my thoughts and therefore I couldn't carry them away. There's nothing worse when someone's hope clashes with your lacking. In the lazy eavesdropping of a spring afternoon, their embraces are always so full of love, yet their hope only induces a weeping in you, soiling their shoulders. The sense of belonging is long gone, gradual

Duct Taped Radios

Last words are often overshadowed by what follows them, squeals, shrieks or sighs. You'd know to hear for it, even expect it because it isn't a singular permanent thing in your vision, that floats incessantly in your waking torment. Instead, it's sudden, like a jerk to some old furniture, a bolt to a fan, that ultimately condenses to some poison. And this poison, like the repellants in the dark are of unknown devices, a dependable light and pungent scent. I wonder whom to pity, we who bleed or those who come seeking it . I find the idea of a resting place comforting, yet completely redundant. Because the moment we knew our limitations, we found those desirable. That when rot put on a mossy cover and leashed us with vines, we couldn't help but rattle our bones against our crypts, that swung yarns of cobwrbs with dewdrop milestones upon them, and a heart of dust. Our clothes drape us, our calendars age us, our breaths identify us. Nobody cares about being brandish

Absent Without Leave

The sea roared in a kettle, signalling to the lone occupant that cold winds do not come bearing gifts of tea and wool. Lifting the lid, one is reminded that every peek is reprimanded by those that pay silence to avoid consequences. The flux of leaves and water seemed like a dance of November. They would lose their colour, yet flourish like an aerated whirlpool where burns release from a dark, eternal torment. The wobbly chair from Mother's wedding found its perfect fit between two eroded rocks. Their erosion was not apparent because it had so taken to the mahogany of the limp chair that it wished to birth the seat from its own womb. Alas! If stone did birth trees, none could be a greater sin than to hide the fact about wildfires from them. They aren't a wisp to embrace, but a sight that pushes senses into the roots, so in all that ashen numbness, one might still qualify being alive. These years gather on the eyes; I dreamt of a box full of them, little fish scales stuck to