The day is named weather.
And the air up here is billowing sea.
This animal balloon eating
sea foam
green clouds
and radio tinsel
igniting rouge fluids.
We can feel the vapours,
the rumpled sunlight
filling our wicker basket.
I can feel Cullen whisper,
The spirit world is behind this.
What hangs between us
is sewn of cheesecloth globs.
Hold run to jump far, he says.
I look down.
The day is named wait!
And the scale of my failure
is a spectrum disorder.
My imagination is my own flood.
This animal balloon drifting
upon feet like curdled lightning bolts,
I look down.
Neltron is glistening organs
guzzled upwards.
It is on this ruby surface
where I want to live
and play with my kids,
inventing the melodies of our future.
I want to be one of them.
I want to make a living.
Yet,
they say I only look like that
in family photographs.
However unfamiliar,
my poetics of fixation
belong to affection.
This poem includes some of you
and most of me,
buckled and floating freely.
credits
from Glitch Lips_ poems,
released June 18, 2017
The soundscape for this poem was created and recorded by Morien Jones
