chammomile

it was cold when i woke up
twelve hours later
eight by their clocks
it being early april and my watch
by the consensus of a tyranical majority
is now about an hour slow
i think i'm going to smash my watch
i like knowing what time it is a little bit too much

i made chammomile tea to stay warm and sang crass songs
out of tune
as my fingers numb and fail to find the right frets
to the sun who's rays are a middle finger waved in my direction
i can feel the cold disregard of the star
for my tiny existence
my mind not even able to contain the idea of the
exansiveness of it's nuclear plains
or the distance it takes light eight minutes to travel

i am what the sun is today
and i flick a beetle into the trunk
of an old twisted cypress tree
the force of the concussion has rendered the little fella dead
i hardly felt it
my finger tips are so cold sticking out of my
fetid fingerless black wool gloves
they smell like the sum total of all my meals since their purchase...
i try not to touch my face with them
but then
my hands are no better

clouds like thick wanderer's calluses
on the feet of some lower god
dancing above the earth like dervish
the sky shows just a bit of blue in some places
and you can see hints of it, again, through the thin haze
like blood flowing deep beneath travel worn skin

i wonder if the eyes develop calluses
i think they might
maybe i'll be blessed with cataracts
and i'll miss some things that i'd like to pass by the wayside
maybe i've already developed some
and it's a lie that i'd like them
or do, as it were

there are days like this
and others
sometimes it's hard to remember to forget that i ever remembered
sometimes i almost accidentally walk by a field of flowers
arranged all pretty
in what you could almost call dusk
just before the light grays


i'm glad i remembered to smile when i saw it
and i smiled a while after
and i sit under this sun that is so very smug
and feeling far away
trying to remember the flowers
then
remembering to forget the flowers
yesterday
their petals have already fallen

gone to meet their master and maker
the big beautiful tulip in the sky

gone to rot
and better the others

who've danced and lived
and loved and fucked
through pollen borne shakespearean prolaimations of unending love on the backs of honey bees

propositions/miniskirts/skittishgiggles/pollen/protrudingerections/benedictions/sanctifications/stickydreams/sweatypalms/
lifeblood/shitcum/dirtdancing/fornicating/existinginblood/
underthesunburningandturningintoash

flowers with such colour
and enchanting smells
and blinking second hand passion
every inch stretching up towards the sun
who's face will hide
in two season's time

when the flame in the heart of nature takes the shape
of the last embers of a fire that keeps the flooboards
just warm enough to be bearable to those who'll soon
stretch their legs and yawn and begin what has never ended