Hanging In A Jar

The rain ended out there half an hour ago, but under these trees it still falls, paressing the full belly like melting dripping on a hot white roll. The sky is darkening. The only moons to be seen are the two blue that hang under eye; limpen forms tangled in a silken rope tied to a root in the furrow atop the brow. Over the ridge Vulcan circles the craters, gloaming about the magma spits. That was then. Now the sky is black. In the space in between we crossed heath and village green. Out West they danced macabre: a top hat of dead bird's wing, a goat's femured cane. Down South the beasts wrought revenge. Mr Badger's corpse lay in resplendent decay in Coldrum, his scrumpled monocle catching the last of the Kentish light, as the red faced farmer snuggled his piglets and served his betroughed for the Sunday roast. Oftentimes things can become confused; not least when you speak one language and the other, another.  Out West, West of my West, they speak in blue skies and ...

Is it a spaceship memory now? How the swinging door would clatter and the cats would run! The flags wore  blue, white, red, green and yellow and stripped to white bone for Sun, then evening reddled, and orchids grew come night. They mostly danced, but sometimes they were still. There were noises from the trees, scratching and rustling as the culprits were hunted; hiding in the shadows at the edge of the scene. Figs hung, not quite ready to eat, and, in the black of it all, the gold from the window lay warm across the water. 

Left stage, this mortal coil. RIP TG.  

Yesterday my wounds were bound, soaked in wine and oil. The wine was red, now I am blue, the binds have come undone. There are fireworks out the window. There are trees too, chicken shops, chalk cliffs, heathland, moors, smugglers caves, a buried heart, tin mines, the ocean, big empty spaces, blue mountains, the coal scar, fields of sunflowers, ghost towns, desert, asphalt, plankton, then a party. One person leaves, then another arrives. Sometimes there's an overlap. The landlady gets angry. One goes to sleep and the other awakes. One is thinking of the fox with the light behind his eyes, and the oil on her head. The other thinks of dinner, and the right amount to load onto the fork.

I looked out of the bedroom window. There was a man in the garden. He looked like he was up to mischief. And then he wasn't there anymore.

Young Heracles rides triumphant! Blackened eyes and milk fat cheeks She supped the water from his bowl But forgot the cream.

She saw a funeral cortege pass by today. It pulled into the cemetery by her house. It was a beautiful day and the grass had been not long cut. Blossom still fell from the trees.  It was an open coffin. His face was waxy and drained of colour; just dusty pink brushed onto his cheeks in a room near where he now lay.  A lady, dressed as Pierrot, lay slumped at his feet. She was limp, like an antique doll shaken by a baby. She had cried so hard that her body had dried out completely. Desperately thirsty, she lapped at the pool of tears below, but the salt crystallised and cracked her tongue. Her blood dripped down onto the pool below. A pulcinella waved from her broken reflection, laughing.  The nun began the eulogy. "I dreamt of autumn in the dim glass light, Of friends, with you, in their motley love, And like a falcon, tasting blood in flight, The swooping heart alighted on your glove. But time would grow old, and deaf, and pass, And, lightly touching frames wit...