white feather

-
As I lay on the eight foot
In diameter trampoline
Engulfed by her netted walls
Staring down the wishing
Well of infinity curve blue
A small white cloud
Was dropped
Into the azure field of my vision
Whereupon it became
A tiny fluffy white feather
Thousands of miles above the earth
Falling silently
Like a weightless bullet
Onto the tip
Of my right big toe.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

COSMIKNOT > nomadic freedoms of the LyrriK Voyce

-
Image
the solution is a bassline and an ancient future outlook. Onward to p.e.a.c.e. Platforms Athens CosmiKnot spins the vestiges of the fake problem into duct tape fixing a funeral barge sailing to the moon with the precision of a tru throw away note trailing from the crumpled horn of 1/4 million miles Davis   Curated by Dr Mikey Georgeson and Samuel Zealey   30th March - 15th April AVA, UEL, E16 2RD A collective speculative temporary community. Re-enchanting the region of disenchantment through the shifting myth-concepts of Aesthetic Ontology.   CosmiKnot is a space to gather in community as social unit to understand through the speculative ritual of Perforum We selected artists with conviction in weaving specific contingent personal mythology into shifting performative ritual transformation of encounter with a materially vital entity that speaks back.   My-Key Hassan Aliyu, Yasmeen Ally El Araby, Bry Ford, Caroline Gregory, My-key, Isabell Metsäpelto, Tony Moon, Venetia Nevill, Ade Ogund
Read more

Blackberry Picking

-
Image
Blood and brambles Bloody Shambles Cameron gambles On Hardline angles "its criminality undiluted" Nations youths have been poluted And while economy takes a tumble I'm at home making blackberry crumble Filled with fruits harvested in scrubland Behind Sainsbury's full of thorns and Smelt of decaying vegetation Seemed emblematic of the nation Made my young son feel ill at ease Paths ill defined,shapes in the trees Such physical pursuits to him Seem unnecessary and alien I tell myself it does him good As any self-respecting father would Hands made for grasping a controler Each bramble scratch will make him wholer But now its my hands that are stained With crimson juices - fear I've refrained From doing this when he was younger And somehow bred one more war-monger But thorny pricks upon my skin Convince me I should not give in. Who needs another liberal deserter In face of national inertia? Instead of always asking why? Perhaps we should
Read more