Writing for a money tree

Wrote this one two years ago, eh, I dunno

The wind pastes you alive, the ocean gives you the silent creeps. And the tears wash you down. Where is the chorus of breath that seems to twist you every simple night?, it's a far away, the farthest mass, where, you say, where people melt into blood and mud,and you are evergreen, they say,you are sweet as can be

 

 My heart is a crowd that you are scared of, it's the violent haze that reddens in hue. Where is the strand, strands of hair that choke you ablaze, amidst the silence of the weary earth.

 

I wrote a mouthful of stones, their eyes pass through, like they are the petty stars that animate the mirage of the skies, t’was all about you, Kae, the miracles of green and the rhizome surely, like your charred hair, sewn out of the cherry tree.

 

When I walk into the room, the paranoia bleaches, the dancers are cancerous, they are, there is the buffet of music, fainting by your shoulders.

 

 Miss, shall I sit here. The smile forgets itself and I know you nod, My friend is not a threat, he is a creeping flavour, and besides me he does waver, and the bell will rash,

 

what was the last book you read, 

The eye of the prince

He became drier, forth the fed wood, I liked him surely, and he blackens, it's the ogre of eyes, that spills in brown, a thousand bumblebees.

How was it

It was fine, man, like that s**t was a real time passer, also felt good finishing that skull

I have never been chased by legs, and when I have, it chooses the roam really, none I can ever touch or feel, but no, it's a feeling really, somewhere I really can't place myself.

The teacher closes the door, never to let words in, it's about a broken window, one hour. Don't look at her hair, how it wrinkles at the very end, where rivers are distraught, how her hand can be most greenful of reds

The broken window is not that bad of a topic

Eh

I find my pen, it's a dead one, it's sweating and ruminating , I look at the teacher, 

I want what drives you away, where ink gasps you mad, the roads you want to blink past and you, are the light soul, that can't stand the sights of me

When will it be over

1 o clock

I always write about you, I am swarmed by it, paling into dust, you dry every tear, every scroll of sweat, she is but the mutate that has lasted forever, the slip of every raging ocean that nuzzles yet still from the inner stream

Write me a song

Talking to the brittle window

Or about the red tubelight

Or the wallflower that annoys

The living morph that descents 

From you

The melody is the only 

Fruit and the rest all

Full of sour

 

Why do you touch me there, the dress is cold and the fridge doesn't work anymore. You need medicine, you are loud and fainting, you are poutless and tearful, no one cries like you, where is the sound mix?, where is it? The senseless watches, fools that short out of buzzing water

 

Sometimes the glaze of what's stranded, merry like the marsh, felled like a lighthouse and the seething swallow of light, it sparks, sometimes in worlds, never to touch.

          

   

I look through hers, a different place to grow up, make all amends, and leave the rest to fumbling ocean

“What did you write about”, writing is never any life

“I might have made it too interpretive which man, is very counter intuitive considering the absolute transparency it posses”

“Huh”

I write about a word on sparrows, how they fragment like finite bees, till their skin sheds, bedridden. No sparrows, bees, well where are they?, out of an underworld, but where it is, and can't you see how they use you like a gentle puppet, gentle as sound

------------

The bus is here, I can go anywhere, mad from home, anywhere, the lights will look the lesser and I am just a little seat, tangent to whatever that makes the wheels shut in, footed sun.

This is the feeling. 

The sweat remains to be scraped off, I feel a tingle of a lunatic pang, is it over?, is it ever

The sky was anything but a meadow, clouds shaped in chalices, where is the animal, you ask, that bellows like a perfect swan, where is he, in the blood she covers, capital and the sorcery of clowns, where is he?

“Boy, you look afar”

Mm

“Tell me just the thing, your mother aunt some florist fanatic”

Where do black butterflies isk from?

Where do the herds sprawl from?, reckless thief, family turmoil, are you sold, are you, the seeth of hushed what? Hushed where? Is it here?

“No, this lot” and the twilight of the hands, are we not ever so shroud by the first twinkle walks, less glitter and rapid feats of nothing, moulded by limbs are we, you are chiral yet godless, where is she?, the handmaiden, where? Where and where? 

Mm

Uh it's a trip, my grandparents uh yeah

Why the terrible haste, it's killing the sweat

What sweat

Where?

Where?

 

Near every waterfall