The only thing I'll make youWhen they met she said I'll make you something. It was only years later that she presented her gift.The only thing I'll make you by dreamingshadow
'That's it,' she said, one night he cried.
Puzzled. 'The only thing I can make you,' she said,
Washes. Plates. At the kitchen window.
(the starlings are cooing, the starlings are cooing,
it is the season)
Plates. Just a window,
a wall window.
Wash up wash up wash wash wash
There must be it, here,
that I could hold delicately like you.
I could crush so easily
Starling turns, eyes as dark as 4 a.m.
You were always clean, she says.
Turns back. To cooing.
You were always clean.
Plates and plates and
a falling china shop of shattered face
soaked in blood warm water
a starling sat upon my finger
a night spilled out with stars
(now they are stuck under my fingernails)
and the starlings are cooing, the starlings are cooing
for it is the season
Eleven abstract storiesA physical yawn. A stretching of self, a reduction of form into a queue of cells that stretch out and flounder like a cat's tail. My eyes are planets and spin silently, slowly, in the darkness time will never wake up from.Eleven abstract stories by dreamingshadow
Self is input. The ones and zeros and seconds were all made for each other. There are no doors for the keys that make up our fabric. Just a glisten as illumination, a gliding spotlight, picks out the patterns in our breathing metal. Space gives space and more space, an infinite jumpback when 'more' is uttered. Else there is staring at the surroundings and see nothing but oneself, and the space inside, that gives more, and more, with an infinite jumpback. It's the entirety of universe or the entirety of me. My body is the pinch in the double helix.
Meaning is an indescribable picture painted by a blind universe. Mini portraits carried inside physical, breathing cavities must have been received from it directly. Nothing I or you can do to emulate the brushstrokes of
Waiting roomWe've had conversations whileWaiting room by dreamingshadow
we've sat in imagined waiting rooms,
nervously awaiting feedback
on the condition of our emotions. Don't fuck about,
just say it like it is.
And I wondered if I was angry, if I was hurt,
wondering if that was even okay;
a nurse wouldn't deliver the news in front of him
to leave me to watch his expression fall into darkness
while we watched weeks of sunsets
and talked about how clouds look like cotton bandages
on an aggravated wound of sky.
Your sunset expressions were always beautiful
and your eyes always made of an undefined anywhere;
but I couldn't marvel at your fading colours when
I couldn't roll a sunrise under your weary eyelids.
On days when I'd come in, arms laden with magazines
that told of lives as glossy as a rinsed scalpel,
I didn't know if I was tending to you, or me,
If our heads were houses
we would have always had a light on at an upstairs window
through the night.
I hoped one day
a discarded star in a
I am now offering up the short novel I wrote in seven days in November 2013 by request only. I'm not publishing it online.
If you're interested, message me, and I'll send it to you. Lame ass blurb:
In the breaths of draught let in by his presence in the doorway, her nightdress rippled a song of midnight sea; the impact of his own breath like a ghost boat sliding across her body. She was a blank white queen, like a human chess piece, surrounded by black squares, and only words now could be written upon her. She could be anything, it seemed, but not enough.
What is there to do when you feel nothing?
And how do you deal with a life you suddenly find yourself in, answering the surprisingly difficult questions from your children about the nature of the world and living?
existing follows the story of a writer who desperately tries to write himself, and his family, to a better ending.
A chapter preview can be found here: