Dusty Morning

May. Nothing's coming in, can't seem to write anything. This is the fourth post of the month, pathetic. Yawn.

Dusty Mornings

It’s on morning like these when
the toxic air-con makes mucus snowflakes
and the sun having just whet
his blades last night
maiming the flesh between the air and my eyes
groaning repetitions of the twenty-sixth alphabet
with supper’s yellow cookie crumbs
(to my surprise)
finding their way between the gaps
to coalesce with flesh
to block out the bright,
in laughter and mocking.
Bough under bough, meat under cloth,
pins and needles.
Ouch.
Last night’s dream was of
Nah, can’t rememboooaaaaarrrggh.
Wet cookie crumbs.

Well, this is the day that You have made.

Thanks for the five senses.

Thanks for letting me wake up before the alaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgghhm

Slimier cookie crumbs

clock.

~tc©