I knead
on the pavement
brushing pastry debris
silicon slender and red
knuckles grow raw
knot needed know more
grit spits shits
from a mouth
in your bed
About 10 metres up from the Spoon (the original window 8) on the Newtown Road in Malvern, this vivid pastry brush awaits its owner to reclaim it.
She falls easily
It’s character building
So she built and spilt into one
became Devil determined
with a back to front mirror
Despising one reflection
turning other cheeks
Checking out the greased grip
Easily accepting pain
Splitting in love
Teasing in love
follicles wrapped ripped
hair bobbles strained stripped
tangles spear smeared bloodied porcelain
She falls
Out
With herself
An empty head
is a good head
Am meant to have cooked
tasty morsel
Singing when we wake
We wake everyone when we sing
An empty head
is a good head
Dwindling down to crooked zero
We sing everyone when we make
Making everyone when we sing
An empty head
Is a good head
kindling in my belly
am kissed with cement
Making when we’re singing
singing, not waking
Am empty-headed
am good-headed
am crook
I didn’t realize this dragonfly was alive until he gently started breathing at the poem’s end. We only bought him in after finding it the gutter assuming the upside down, legs in the air, position. I have put him in a sunny spot. Hopefully he’ll revive.
Couldn’t get close enough to focus with my digital camera, so used my i-phone to try capture his winged beauty.
This poem follows the dragonfly form.
Hairy Dragonfly (Brachytron pratense), also known as the Hairy Hawker or Spring Hawker.
© Catherine Crosswell
Swifts stir the air in Star Wars Formation
Churning out online surveys
Delaying the inevitable
tormented tipped wings from Tatooine
Rigidly stood
accepting sentence this time
The quicker the better
to gin the go-getter
We can toast the demise
after gravity has prised
my need
for quantitative greed
More than just stunned
sewn seeds strewn on tiny slipped puns
in a galaxy far far away….
I’ll use the force if I have to
to gently squeeze your hand
coz prayers are for those that do pray.
We had fortune cookies. Mine was empty.
Catherine Crosswell 