The desert called; its tone silent. It asked me out, and so I went. One patch of dune looked like the rest; so, I couldn't tell which place was best to burn just like a slice of bread stuck in the slot, 'mid burning threads: those glowing wires, exuding heat that burn the head and burn the feet. And so, I marched across the sands in search of more temperate lands, but I never reached such a place and vanished there, without a trace.
Something shakes the high grass,
what it is I can't say.
I see flowers tremble,
near a part-line splay.
I hear dry stems rattle
to some darting moves.
But a creature's existence
still remains unproved.
Maybe it's delirium,
or a trick of the wind.
I catch no flash of fur
on which my claim to pin.
Even from the watchtower,
my grounds are circumstantial.
I can't give proof of life --
at least not that's substantial.
Do I look blurry to a fish,
as if a floating cloud?
Does it expect I’ll dart away
as silence rings aloud?
I love a little door to nowhere, with no apparent reason to be. Not under a sign or in the square, but in a privy wall or thick tree. Somewhere one would least expect a door. Somewhere that begs the question: "Where to?" A place for mean rogues, scamps and whores? A hideaway that offers no clue. It would probably just disappoint: to learn the sanctum's private intrigues. Not some tough, sleazy speakeasy joint, or bohemian savants' league. And so, I never, ever knock, but let the story form in my mind - a tale to titillate and shock, one that leaves no misanthrope behind.
The sign read: "Flee Market,"
and so, of course, I fled.
The hawkers called to me
as I sped like hot lead.
From what I was fleeing,
I have no idea.
But I found a cheap chair
down at the IKEA.
It seems there's no need for a sign that says: "No Outsiders, Inside!" Wherever you may draw the line, it can't sensibly be denied that the outsider who steps across - having crossed - is an insider. No need to consult the rules or boss Re: the "IN" side of the divider.
To find oneself within a crate - packed inside and labeled "Freight" seems like the worst that things can get, but then I peered out through the slit, and what a thing it was to see a croc's keen eye stare back at me. It had so many freakin' teeth, both on the top and underneath! I concluded the box 'tweren't so bad. To stay a while, I would be glad!
Of all the masters & all the slaves,
I find that mind fire burns in waves.
And sometimes the emotions derail
too quickly to lengthen the exhale.
Trees falling in the forest, unheard,
can still crush a nest of baby birds.
Turns out it's not the sound that matters,
but what the destruction leaves in tatters.
The phrase “Queen of Slaves” comes from a Percy Bysshe Shelley poem (Canto 4, No. 24)
flow on, Dark River; slip through the night. midnight's thick clouds block the moonlight. your voice drowned out by insect chirr. a Huck Finn raft drifts by at a blur: the rafters unseen; their secret stays hush... but for those red eyes in the underbrush.
I look in the middle; it's the same as the outside. White space - White space, and no place to hide. A peaceful patch of emptiness - I know this much is true: I could turn it any way I liked, and not change the view.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 