Nodding to a wharf

There’s always been a tiny part of me that wanted to swim, not fly. Most people wish they could be birds. I suppose to “get away from it all” or something of that sort. It’s not so much that I want to get away, but escape. There are different ways of approaching this type of ordeal. The convoluted and diabolical way, or the easily-forgotten and pious way. Either are forms of lovely mush and droopy egregious lies.


The best part of holding up a gloppy form of prayer is that no one else will ever have to hear it. You can say or think or even feel what you’d like, alongside the reassurance that not one soul will drink a drop of it.


Those tiny Russian dolls really are quaint. Quaint reminds me of a quail. Quails remind me of periwinkle mothers, carrying along their tiny lavender-splashed young. Hopefully not around a gutter or ditch. Least we make a vile attempt to maintain all children in one piece.


I never quite looked at food as too much of a necessity, more of what’s expected. If there was any way that I could sustain a form of life with the absence of eating, I would. But I can’t, so enjoying this most elementary form of expression and self-illumination is one of the only members in my tiny club titled “Needy”.


The wonders of these worlds are lovely, they really are. They light up our memories, and keep our heads bouncing with kindled anticipation. Once arriving, only after plethoras of research pages have been gobbled and swallowed down your throat, disappointment settles in fatigued old bones, then continues on it’s way to some other form of gentle laughs and simple pleasure.





… <3