snail like

You are my
Casing

You know me
Belly button out
And still miss some
Important bits so
We can sit and pull streams of
Words out our mouths
Like magicians flags on
And on 'til we choke

My Clown.
Our tango is clumsy
Too full of passion and shouting
In awkward
Ways and too leaning - now
We fall this way
Now that but.
But ( if you look
At the dream visions
We paint with our feet,
Incidentally)

And i have too
Much flesh and you have
Too much
Voice and it
Is only when i am so scared
I am made small
(Snail like) and i let
Your hands cover me.

And your voice mend me.

And i realise that you
Are my casing.

granular history

writing box

I inch myself
In
Carefully

(I fit tight
In this box)

Controlled
Feet crossed over each other -
So.
And slide in at a slight
Angle,

So i fill it
All up and then

Then this is easy!

Four solid sides
And contained space,

And colours that
Will not change under my
Feet and pins and needles
Because of...


Not. All this mess
These strands i cannot find
(Let alone tie)

And the people i cannot
Look at
Let alone touch

And the floods and
Floods of words
That arrive uninvited. And in nonsensical orders.

So i inch myself
Into my pink and green writing box slowly.
And i will sit - to write -
And the words will arrive sedately.
Politely.
One at a time.