Dead Butterfly Dream

One poem after another

DEAD BUTTERFLY DREAM 


It’s smart to unsubscribe from archetypes. 
Mostly, my arms don’t bend back.
Tragic life stories are overrated. 
I can strike out stupidly at any given moment.
I perform humiliation better than anyone. 
A man asks me out in a dream
then looks sad because he can’t 'put me in a box'. 
I laugh because he doesn’t have a box. 
I’m sold as seen.
I accept the second drink. 
I’m the same as anyone else
trying to stay present. 
Slippery. 

----

LONG WINTER AHEAD


Sunsets slip between my thighs.

A love of skin tones is only the surface of it.

Soft furnishings.

An internet guy says ‘morose’ is a sexy word. 

I mouth it like a mantra. 

Morose. 

I hear the church and visualise its vast bell.

The bell trolls my dreams. 

I want to touch it. 

I insulate voids with tissue-thin poems 

that mildew,

open and close cabinets.

Co-star advises me to fall in love with a dead writer.

White vans move through rain

one after another.