little girl and her dog

I hated your dog

and how much you loved it

like an old jointless woman

or a helpless little girl

more desperate for blind loyalty

than blind miracles.

I hated the biting pity

of that simple joy

that meant so much

too much

for someone so young;

someone more delicate

than glassy bones

or a tiny stray.

paintchips

crinkling petals from yesterday's gestures

infuse vague notions of time

sprinkling impressions almost forgotten

into notions already designed

to tint the walls with echoes

and stain the hues of consent

into a dreamland of muted sound

and the distortion of all pigment.

Bleaching and dying

and patching our scrapes

with the meanings we merely regurgitate

from our our constricted bowels;

the unspoken vowels

not pronounced as succinctly as implied

between the clipped phrases

and interminable spaces

of the lines

of the stories

of our lives.

What is this waking daze we're in

but undigested experience

inflaming the aperture of our eyes?

a glass

drinking in your words

like liquid light suspended

in drops of wine

a golden tincture of time

spent between old friends

seeping like resin into the cracks

to sand the wear of a long day.

phlegm

our lives are coloured by undigested experience -

and insanity;

the phlegm of an obstructed heart.

ash

I painted your urn,
dug your grave,
and buried your ashes

under a purple light.
These sound like a lines of verse
but they aren't.