Plinth

I must have banged the door shut on my entourage, like a raving, debauched guitar god from the 70s, and swivelled back to my bathtub full of vomitty fluid and fallen face down into it. You don't need to like your entourage do you, especially when you don't like them. How can you like them when they are weaselly and wallowy and a bit flaccid? So that felt nice, and I liked the isolation and the distinction of my pungent bathtub. I felt like a capital letter amid the lower cases. I felt like people in Moldova or Tajikistan, with their Moldovan farm lands and Tajik goats, and their thin lips smirking at the Russians in the distance. Banging doors on people or things or the past always distinguishes oneself and puts one on the plinth.

Ask Lord Nelson, if he finds standing on the plinth easy, with his back shot through in a battle some 200 years ago. It gives him distinction and plenty of altitude. Years of practice have made him a good background, a familiar canvas in front of which you stand and pose. That is what happens. As you stand on the plinth, an invisible face might suck you in from the foreground and spit you onto the background.

Seeing you after a year is a strange experience. I am down here, you are there on the plinth and the entourage is there too, giggling inanities to one another. I can't look at them anymore, that's why I stare at you. But you smile at me, knowing that I want to be with them and find comfort in inanities.

She who doesn't wish

She, who doesn't wish,
For could bees and may bees,
And other mythical animals,
From my lovely picture book,
Hasn't sighed since a foggy morning,
Many cold years ago.
She carries her own dictionary in her bag,
To help her understand the meaning of
Tea bags, itinerant clouds and life.

She, who is happy,
And content with the what is,
Of the Times New Roman Bold font,
Sneaks into her paper bed,
To ignore the sibilant undertones,
Of turning pages and hasty scribbles.

Grumpy

I am not whimsical, for there is a subtle difference. To pine for the sun when it rains, and long for rain when it doesn't, is not being whimsical. I won't even be amused if it rained when it was sunny. I'd probably pray for snow.
Instead call me grumpy, I think that would be fair.

Passing through

Far away a light wades its arms amid,
Dark umbrella leaves, hanging from the trees,
A committee of heads consequently
Spread, walking ahead of his majesty,
Followed by a selfless shadow, an unchaste
Lady, a devoted monkey, a bunch
Of ashen loud mouthed banalities.

Keeping apace, aloof yet amingling,
Performing a part, is a part of me,
Departing me, apart from me, anxiously.