Some old writing...

Some old poetry:

Daphne saw the same gray

but when they sniffed and groaned with the anticipation of the first droplets or when it fell and they pirouetted with a makeshift adolescent freedom, tongues waggling in lustful impatience, nervous fingers peeking from nylon cuffs, chirping in gaudy tunes

she retreated to the elapsed and non-sensual; a painted picket fence always latched and a grassy slope, a bend of shrubbery by the two mile tree line and night, always night— music lit and moon spun, an echoing voice peppered by glints of illumination against a backdrop of the clear sweetened aftermath. It always started because of the window, maternally ajar, a single cable of salubrious sanity wandering and waltzing under her beech wood pillow cases, into the feathery folds of a suffocatingly dreamless slumber

which they said she did too much back then (but they didn’t know)

And now it seemed like sleep was never more then marked hours gauged with bent fingers and forgotten phantasms of something infinitely wonderful and unscientific

interrupted or never began because of the window. She lay against a spread of particulars on recycled paper and a torrent of high pitched this and that mongering from outside the shut glass extinguished the light. Deeper resonance led to the jersey twin sheets and the girl guided the brush strokes of a viable portrait after a calculated proof (that is, 85%) and a conjured validation, and only then after the two second stare and the acrobatic hand, after a wait one moment mark the door wheezing mess of desperation and humanity did the light go out.

Daphne saw the same face so as to avoid the one in the unfocused corner, a quick uncertain smile and a single worded conversation that was always, always enough.
The scent of the flower is a matter of life
Salt black rocks, suctioned starfish, leaping salmon splash and forgetting the rubber soled shoes
Is a matter of life.
That one melodious laugh in the western dry heat and the sugar crystals from the sweets on fingertips and the clothed icy dip of feet and the vacant white beaches slightly rocking from the dawn birthed waves and the bits of morning tinsel on the grassy path and hardback gold lettering and remember that one summer not so long ago and you: you are a matter of life.

“You are trying to understand humanity in 120 minutes.”
“It’s 119 actually.”
“You’re an elitist.”
“At least I make the effort.”
“I don’t care about them because they don’t care about themselves. Why do we try so hard to understand them, their jokes, their backwardness, the homicidal, the suicidal, the masochistic. Not everything needs to be confused. Not everything needs to be sufficiently witty and sufficiently monotonous and sufficiently fucked up.”
“But everything should be a fantasy? That’s what you want, isn’t it—castles and knights and dragons?"”
"Don't forget the hobbits."
"So you just ignore reality?"
"It's better then reveling in human imperfections."
“That's a cop-out"
“But it’s not a pretense.”

Daphne heard the same words, but they were blurred in partial truths and wordless breaches, and she tasted the same uncertain texture of inexperience, organic and roughly saccharine but wanting in the unshakable heady fumes of the decanter’s aged scarlet
But always Daphne felt the same

Deeply