FLORALS IN SPRING? – 17 Nov 2017

Miranda Priestley once said, ‘Florals in Spring? Ground-breaking.’ and we all recoiled because, as if the Cerulean Sweater incident in The Devil Wears Prada wasn’t enough to make us feel fantastically un-chic, then, this was. Florals and Spring are like Summer and Sun. One demands the other. But Miranda Priestley tells us that they have a love affair that is unrequited. One calls out into the crisp, clear morning and the other does not come running.

Spring demands flowers. It’s the hour of rebirth, of buds and, of blossom. But it’s not the flowers who need the Spring. Miranda makes the point that there are people who know this, and people who don’t and that those who don’t are impossibly un-ground-breaking. What she indicates here is a fashion concept that is rarely, explicitly highlighted. Fashion is countenance.

Many people believe that what we dress ourselves in is simply something that matches our external environment. When it’s cold, we wear a coat. At the office, we wear formal elegance. At dinner, we wear glamour and poise. In Spring, we wear florals. But what fashion really is, what fashion tries to be and tries to explain, is that what we wear is far more an expression of our internal environment. What you adorn yourself with, how you present yourself, can be as truer pronouncement of your outlook as a signed declaration. A fragment of this we know. When you dress in a matching two-piece, crisp lines, tailored chic, you come across as put together, in control, organised, classy, well-mannered… And, while this is true, what’s more important and rarely talked about is that dressing as such creates the illusion in your own mind that you just might be these things.  There’s a reason why red lipstick is a weapon.

People say you should dress for yourself, and that is true. People say you should develop a style and this might be true. If dressing up (or dressing down) has the power to evoke a whole new personality trait inside of you, then you’re free to dress however you might want to feel that day. Dress elegant to feel elegant, dress comfortable to feel comfortable, button up, button down…whatever liberates you from your chains and anxiety.

I believe this is what fashion trends intend to do. They’re not about matching our patterned coats and cut of trousers to the seasons. Fashion trends, the fashion seasons, are about evoking a feeling, a hidden streak of something inside of you, of unlocking something within. We dress to know who we are; people disrobe to feel free of labels. Uniforms exist to create unity in belief and convictions amongst a collective. Fashion trends reach out to us and ask us who we want to be right now. The leaves have fallen. Do you want to be floating like them or do you want to be cut crisp? Fashion’s best asset is her impermanence, but our sense of self has this virtue as well. We can always change who we want to be, at any moment, at the drop of a leaf. We’re always one shopping trip away from being someone else entirely. If you want to be adorned in flowers, striking and admired, you don’t have to wait for the Spring.

Eric Roth once wrote, ‘I hope you have the courage to start all over again’ and maybe that’s the sentiment we’re trying to evoke with Spring, with florals. To bloom once more. To be fresh, to be lovely and to be new. This sentiment we should keep. It’s a nice thought to have when there are peonies on your dress, but what we should remember about the fashion seasons, and about Miranda Priestley, is that we don’t need to wait until the seasons align to do so. If starting again, if being jovial and fresh is what we’re after, why not start now in Autumn, or Mid-Winter, or late Summer? Why is it only Spring in which florals can be seen on restless bodies, fresh from the heavy hibernation of the woollen winter coat?

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trump vs. the people

I’ve always been a person with about 5 different thoughts running through my head at once. I read somewhere that ‘To think 1 thought is very hard. To think 5 is easy.’ It stays with me, even now. And I assume, as someone with a lot of words racing through their mind, I’ve turned to paper countless times to try and order some of the nonsense. More often than not, I write things down to calm myself. I realise now, a lot of that was a refuge from mental illness, but more on that another time. What I mean to write about here is Barack Obama.
America isn’t my home, in fact, I’ve never stepped foot into it. But some part of me is housed there. It has always been through the Americas that I have made an immense amount of peace with my ‘blackness’. And I know enough of the country’s history to know that Trump winning office was not surprising. Under qualified people have won before – Reagan. People with no intention to better the country have taken office before – Nixon. This isn’t the first time Americans have had to endure. Maybe what is so shocking about Trump is that the divide isn’t as clear as white and black. There are white men and women who are outraged by his taking office. That’s a little new. Maybe the newest shock is that a woman ran by his side, won the popular vote, and still lost. Maybe the shock is the tri-President contradiction.
America had Obama. All policies aside, airstrikes and Guantanamo failure ignored, there was a President who was the people’s President. For the first time, a Black person stood at the apex of the country’s power and steered it through 8 rocky years. 8 great years. 8 bittersweet years. There was a goodbye to Obama we all knew was coming. He wasn’t able to take office again and the significance of having been honoured, having someone who for the first time, it truly felt like, deserved the American presidency, will always hold us in its sway. Obama winning was a victory for more than just a President, a party, a team, it was the victory of a whole nation of people, for people who are no longer with us, people who laid their lives on the lines for the possibility, people who lost their lives, lynched and beaten, because of the lack of possibility. Obama was like the first time it was realised equality could maybe be a thing; the first time it seemed enough ground had been covered to look back and realised how far we had walked. Let’s not be foolish though; black people were still being murdered on American streets and the blood of black people still dirtied American doorways. But, the President was black. If that wasn’t hope, what could be? President Barack Obama was hope.
Then, there was Hillary. The Clinton Regime still leaves a bitter taste. There are still families segregated by Bill’s decisions, still people of colour serving time in prisons for things their white equivalents have long since walked for. Cocaine on Wall Street is a party, Cocaine in Harlem is 20 to life. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s Monica Lewinsky. There’s the iconic ‘I never had sexual relations with that woman’ and unfortunately for Hillary, that leaves her as the iconic ‘scorned wife’. She’s never going to fare well in America’s eyes. Not as the ex-FLOTUS, not as the Secretary of Defence. What she has done, what she has made possible, I commend. She’s a woman working in a man’s world. The idea of a glass-ceiling has never existed for Hillary Clinton. If I could ask for anything, I’d ask people to admire the significance of what she’s achieved – a woman fronting a man’s domain. She’d never have won. Not even if her candidate had been her equal. Maybe she’s lucky her candidate was Trump. She was up against under qualified. If she was taking on someone we’d be comfortable taking office, I don’t think she’d have made it – not because she’s incapable, but because her political history hurts too much. She’s always going to be the ex-FLOTUS who imprisoned loved ones. That can’t be changed. Hillary was so close, but she was also so far.
Trump was expected. Nothing about him screamed impossible. He’s uninformed, or rather, he misinforms. What sells better than sex, you ask: misinformation. Nothing flies faster than falsity. When you make up your own rules, you can never lose. No candidate before has taken slandering the way Trump has; he has taken a petty last resort to a proud sport. Nobody has taken motifs like Trump has; even Hitler didn’t suggest a damn wall. A wall is somehow more domineering, more sinister; a wall is permanent segregation. It’s not just rejection but ignorance, primacy dancing with exclusivity. Trump wants to shut out what he doesn’t agree with – he quite literally does, screaming over reporters. Trump is the people. He’s what happens when we’re allowed to run into the horizon without something there to tell us when to stop. He’s the kid who has never been reprimanded, never been taught what the centre of the universe really is. He’s unsurprising, obvious, loud…he’s uncouth when I’m feeling nice and petrifying when I’m angry. Trump, however, called for action in a way that appeals to humans best. Politics is slow moving, it’s policies, it’s agendas, it’s small print and footnotes, it’s never what we’re promised. You want a gender equality? You’re going to need 50 years worth of political progress first. Trump doesn’t promise a bill or a law or a new programme, Trump promises physicality in the face of the always impalpable law of the nation. Trump bypasses government workings, he bypasses the idea of taking things officially. Where a politician would call for tighter immigration law, Trump suggests to you a wall. A wall is more effective than a more complicated immigration process, than tighter regulation of the country’s borders, of stricter observation of immigrant document papers. A wall allows what a law can’t: impenetrability and finality. Trump appealed to what we all want most, a guarantee. He’s a sure winner.
So when you mix the three together; a hope that must be said farewell to, a woman with a painful past and a man who shouts out a deal we can’t ignore…only one can survive. Nothing about Hillary losing shocks me, nothing about Trump winning has confounded me. What hurts though, what aches and what burns, is that we have to say goodbye to our creator of hope to make way for a man who guarantees us something now far worse than misinformation, bigotry.
The lights have gone out. Americans are living in a world that no longer seems to be theirs. It feels someone lost control of the wheel and it seems things have gone so far back it will be centuries before America makes it back. Its 4 years of hell. And this is all a worsened grief for every person of colour, especially the women. It’s a world regressing, at times like this, which is why speaking up is so important. Trump is not a man we should mock. To make light of him is to make light of the situation. He’s a man who is now the president. Americans have to speak up for what they refuse to lose next; their rights, their safety, the confidence in their country. The presidency isn’t in America’s control but its beliefs, what it holds to be correct, is. Obama gave America hope, and America failed to vote hope back in, the least Americans could do is keep hope alive amongst themselves.

When Science Met History

“She had been so quiet the entire time, and distant, and untelling, and suddenly with the meal over, she lent forward suddenly in her seat and she said, ‘What is there in physics for you?’. I said, taken aback but unwilling to fluster in front of the most serene person I’d met, ‘The whole world. What’s in history for you?’ and she smiled and said, ‘I’m not sure history is where I should be, if I’m honest. Sometimes I think I should be where you are, looking at the smallest thing and seeing everything.’ And I remember asking what she meant. She said, ‘Don’t the physicists say that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction?’ and I was kind of scared to speak because I had lost the thread of the conversation and so I nodded and she said, ‘Well, do you believe it?’ and I said ‘Of course I believe it. It’s science.’ and she smiled and said ‘So what I mean is, you look at the glass on this table and conclude there is upward force keeping it up and a downward force keeping it still, excuse my wording, but that’s the general concept of the science, yes?’ I nodded. And she said, ‘And you look at this glass, of millions of glasses in the world, this one no more significant than any other, and see every other glass out there. But also every other chair on the ground, book on a shelf, house on a road, person on the street because for every action, there has to be an equal and opposite reaction?’ I nodded. And she continued, ‘So it would be nice if that was transferable. If I could look at history, at humans, and say for all the wrong, there is an equal and opposite right. For all the hurt, there must be an equal and opposite comfort. But that isn’t true. History reads a lot more like regardless of all the right, there will always be wrong that rises. If History wrote Newton’s law of motion, it would be that ‘for every action, there is a reaction’.’ And I remember sitting in silence and trying to find the point and she took a sip of her drink and seemed to smile with every other facial feature beside her mouth and she said ‘What I mean is Physics is indiscriminate law. What happens, happens and it always will and always has, as long as the math is right. Physics provides undeniable reassurance and security that the world is. History provides undeniable anxiety and disquiet that the world is.’ And I have never forgotten to remind myself that beneath all her encouragement and faith in the human race, she knows better than anyone what the world can be and I admire her courage every day to wake up and believe in us, even so, in spite of the science.”

-The Scientist

 

“I was raised in a scientific household. I was told nothing was fact until all other routes had been tried and disproved. There is no science in history, I admit. It’s easy to invent prediction from past. Even if you were to make a hypothesis, you would never be expecting to conclude on world peace. [smiles] But, yet, I have faith. While collectively we may not always do right, there is proof we do feel a magnetism to what we could call ‘good’. Humans are compassionate, which means benevolence is in our best advantage and there is, then, good reason to hope that should evil rise, there will be few brave enough or compassionate enough to find what is right. For every villain, there is hero. I cannot promise that this will be equal, nor exactly opposite, as the science and the facts don’t disprove otherwise. But I can tell you, there is good reason, sensible cause, to hypothesise that this could be so. And here is our little victory over science, my fellow historians, science is nondiscriminatory. What happens, will always happen, so long as the math is right. Which means the laws of science are fixed. Humans are not so inflexible. Just because we haven’t always found good so instantaneously does not mean it will always be so. In fact, there is no science to disprove that, in history, for every evil there is a greater benevolence. We have the magnificent task of creating the laws we intend to live by. History does not work on proved and tried testing, it works on human action. What history does not account for is the reaction to equal or oppose each action. That is all for us to decide. There is no reason why we can’t write the equation to be exactly the reaction we desire. Granted, writing an equation without a framework can be daunting so I suggest we start somewhere basic but somewhere judicious. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For now, I think that simple law could be the beginning of something hopeful.”

-The Historian

29 october 17

Dear Depression,

I hope you’re okay. Well, not really. Okay would mean you’ve latched on to someone else and that’s not what I want. I guess I hope you’re not miserable. Which is ironic. But that’s what this past month has done; made me somewhat ironic.

I know now there is forgiveness in letting go of things, of releasing control and relinquishing judgement to a status of irrelevance. It brings you a comfort that can only be described as fear. When you have no parameters to judge your life by, no order, no knuckle-whitening grasp on norms, no judgement calls to rule your standards, your life can become a full force tornado of everything. If you let go of everything, you don’t have nothing. Instead, you can have everything. This is far scarier. And far more comforting.

Don’t have me misunderstood, I did not let go of you. I lost you. In the chaos of moving. That is something else entirely. But I used to think of you as something that was either present or absent. Now you are more like a layer of paint on my walls. You being there, your presence, is irremovable. I can paint over you and chip you off. That’s it, more or less. You’re presence wanes, takes new shapes, transforms, like something lunar. I’m happier with you like this. I don’t thank you for my happiness because you’re gone because now I know I can be happy even when you’re here. It’s a more complicated process but if I let go of you, which I have, you can always come back. I could always brush your fingertips while trying to reach the stars. I could accidentally open my door to light and find you in my hallway. This is what I live with now. It’s scarier. But it’s more comforting. You are always a possibility but so is everything else.

So I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re enjoying being free for a while. I hope you’re keeping your eyes wide open at all there is out there now that you don’t need to fixate on me. We’ve lost each other and maybe that was our breath of fresh air. We don’t need to find anyone else, or anything else. Just knowing that there is more out there, releases us. How could we have been so narrow-sighted? There is a big blue world out there and not all of it is going to love either of us, or be good to us both. But, not all of it will punish us either.

We were cruel to each other. We loathed the other’s presence but we never left, hated it when we managed to and were all the more cruel when we came back together. We were bitter. I’ve let go of that now. I’m trying to be softer. So I hope you’re okay.

And it doesn’t matter if you don’t hope that I am okay. I’m trying to be softer and that means a lot of things. It means ceasing to expect and starting to accept. I hope you’re okay and I’ll accept whatever it is you hope for me. But I won’t expect it.

Write to me if you want to. We lived under the same skin. Your voice is with me always. In the creak of a door and the drip of the taps, but, still, it would be nice to hear from you directly.

Yours, softly.

 

The fall and decline of the human spirit

In the present day, are we a generation with a declining collective human spirit?

In order to believe that, currently, the collective human spirit is in decline is to believe that the human spirit is quantifiable – which it surely isn’t.  In order to believe that the human spirit, as a collective, is falling, failing, you must have to first believe that the human spirit is qualitative but also a body to be judged as a collective, as a whole, in contrast to pertaining to an individual.

The human spirit is mutable. It exists on every plane. There is the human spirit: collective or the spirit of a human: singular, there’s the spirit of humans: concept, the human spirit: physiologically, the human spirit, the remixes: religious, spiritual, moral, scientific, national, global, personal, sane, infantile, elderly, distorted, burdened, gleeful, grieving, amused, bemused, angry, raging, gothic, romantic, confused, underdeveloped, overdeveloped, lacking, expanding, shared, guarded… – It’s the abstract noun that also exists in a concrete form; the soul. It is the verb that exists in every conjugation: the I, the You, the We, the He, Them, She, It. The human spirit is elusive, no sooner have we pinned it down than has it changed form, dashed off or hued down to a roaring blue. The human spirit of the Greeks, of the Aztecs, of the Ming Dynasty, is exactly the same as the one we exercise, fear, and dismay at today. The human spirit is not in decline because it’s impossible to quantify such an elusion. The human spirit exists and that’s just about all the characteristics, all the status, and all the data we can attach to it. We can label it but we’ll never be able to map it.

The question posed is ridiculous and I think you know that. The human spirit is obviously not in decline. How could it be when humans still a) exist, b) are sentient beings and c) exercise their full natural amendment to be reflective? So long as there are humans, and we are aware we are humans, and we haven’t slipped dramatically into a dystopia (as much as today’s politics feels as such), humans have a spirit, that spirit remains questionable, and that’s sort of all there is to be said.

But in order to really explain the question posed, I have to answer another question first. What exactly is the human spirit to begin with?

While I could give you a thesis on what the human spirit really boils down to, I’m going to limit myself to this discussion. Is the human spirit, collective, anything different than the human spirit, singular, which is also pretty much the same question as, are the things we personally care about the same things we publicly care about? And not to get ahead of myself, but I’m telling you now, the answer is no and yes respectively. What we are as singulars is what we make up as collectives – a swarm of bees is just a singular bee multiplied. What bothers us in private bothers us in public – a murder in the bedroom is the same as a murder in the street. We’re all very much torn up about the same old shit. Unsurprisingly, so were the Greeks and the Romans and the Victorians and the people bowling about Europe who died of Black Plague and also the first people to fuck up America and the Buddhas and just about everyone. We’re all concerned about making something out of this nothing we call life. We could all just be born, eat enough to survive, chat about the weather enough to give our brains the meagre social interaction they need, never produce anything, never contribute anything and die. This could be our fate. But it’s not. Because we’re all hell bent on making this ‘gift’ last a lifetime. It’s not enough to be born once and that be our only miracle. We are the kids that play with the toy until it’s dead. We have to keep making this surprise of life turn tricks. It’s why we wake up everyday and insist we do something.

Over time, that collective do something has changed but that’s nothing to do with the human spirit and everything to do with the governing bodies that realised capitalism is completely detached to the human spirit and actually thrives when we’re not in contact with the illusion (hello dystopia!!!!!) and so really, our do something hasn’t actually changed very much to what Plato and Aristotle we’re shouting about.

What we must do is elevate. Wow. Not what you were expecting, right. We have to accommodate here, the collective has to be universal. I would love to tell you what we must do is contribute but not all of us have it in us. There is a world out there of people who both contribute and don’t contribute, both positively. We need an undefinable universalism. Elevation. Since the day the first single cell organism popped up on this planet, we have been on a little bit of a maddening expedition to elevate ourselves and if you’re a human, congratulations – you’re on the winning team. Humans are the Gods of elevation. We can communicate, we have consciousness, we have sentience, we’re moral, reflective, we’re compassionate (most of us), we can make art, we can invent things, we can fly and swim, we’ve left our planet and returned, we’ve built cities, we’ve built systems and we’ve built a common, shared history…the list goes on. But this in itself is not the human spirit. It’s why we do these things in this first place that is the question.

Florence Nightingale wanted to do it when she started sewing up injured soldiers, Einstein did it, Hawking did it, the great Poets did it, mothers do it, fathers do it, friends do it. What we all really want, more than the biggest slice of chocolate cake, is to leave this planet a little better than we entered it and my proof that elevation is the human spirit is this: if it wasn’t, the fact we leave walking, talking, and aching would be enough. Kids do it all the time. You’re sick and they bring you whatever they can to help. A daffodil, a hot bowl of soup, a kiss…elevation comes in all forms but it’s purpose is always the same:

We just want to brighten things. Make things a little easier, a little happier, make someone smile, make a difference, be remembered, make sense of things so someone else doesn’t have to, answer a few questions, solve a few riddles, make ease of a long life. Elevation. The word does the explaining: to raise something to a higher place. To lift up. To lighten.

The human spirit is that word embodied in the changing circumstance of humanity. It’s why we have charities. To lift up those who suffer. It’s why we make literature. To explain what this big mess of life is, to make sense of our shortcomings, to highlight our strengths, to exercise our right to reflect, to grow, to change, to overcome. It’s what we made philosophy for: fool proof guidebook on how to live and live well, afterall, we are given no instruction on how to navigate this. It’s why we have music, paintings, beautiful architecture, inventions, medicine, science, friend and family who stand by you, strangers who smile, that little tick in the heart when you witness another suffer, when you have that twitch in the ear when you stand on a spider. Our elevation goes beyond fellow humans. It’s extended to the planet itself. We want to be the best and yet, that’s not quite it. We want to be better. We want everything coming into this world to leave a little lighter, a little higher, a little more refined and improved. We enter this world like asteroids, all chaotic and confused, rudimentary. We want to leave like planets. Developed and peaceful. Our own path round the sun, our own steady way to keep living, our own set of rules, laws and harmony.

So, if that’s what the human spirit is. Here comes the answer to the first question:

The human spirit is not in decline. Not now, not ever. We’re maybe a little overwhelmed at the minute in the face of perplexing new technologies. We made a lot of elevation over the last century. Everyone was racing to elevate us all at once in every direction and really, we’re neither lost or confused or distracted about our human spirits. We’re just overcoming a lot of noise. But I imagine actually, that this is what it was always like. A lot of noise. A billion asteroids hitting ground at once, and becoming planets was never going to be quiet. Add in each asteroid’s personal elevation project; a book, a song, the light bulb, the steam engine, a new philosophy, a new law of physics, a new element…it’s a lot of sound and fury to be living amongst. We’re always going to be noisy but we all know in our own heads what it is, what our spirit is, and it really always will be elevation. Sometimes it’s a little evil or a little off base, but maybe that’s the distorted human spirit. Maybe that’s a whole other essay to be getting on with. But elevation, elevation, elevation. It’s not the same in us all, that’s the scientific, the humanitarian, the spiritual. That’s the singular. But as a collective, it’s equal. We can’t help entering as asteroids but we sure as hell can leave as planets, if we want. And the human spirit, in all of its universality, is a collective want.

THE PEACH AND THE CHERRY RACE – MARCH 15 2015

Down on Blossom Lane lived the cherries and the peaches. On one side of the pit-covered lane lived the peaches in grand cream houses with whipped cream tops and ice-cream lawns and doors made out of pie and windows made of caramelised sugar. On the other lived the cherries in houses the colour of night and tangled stems coating their devil-kissed doors and haunting torment engulfing their lawns.
Each year the world got better; the peaches’ lawns expanded by a pit, the blossom trees with lilies at their feet moved closer to the cherries, to the night, and the road became evenly disproportionate as the world got better. And each year the cherries got caught in a smaller night, crowded round the edges of the tangled stems of torment, as the night engulfed more space, more dreams, more lawn. It was a law on Blossom Lane that all fruit were born equal – so if one peach was a god, so were the rest. If one cherry was born an empty nut, the rest were too.
Down on Blossom Lane lived the cherries and the peaches on a pit-covered lane with a moving row of Blossom trees bathed in lilies; and all was equal and all was fair.
Down on Blossom Lane there was a war not too long ago. The cherries moved into the houses of the peaches, and the peaches took pride in splatting cherries against their walls (some had the pride to do it on the lawn too) and the cherries were bruised and their stems got knotted and one day a cherry was found hanging from the lily soaked blossom tree, it’s stem tangled and tormented, caught in the blossom and the cherry juice on the lilies, staining them red, staining them dark. And the skin of a cherry, bruised and haunted, hung like a bad smell in a crowded room. The peaches moved their blossom trees 3 pits closer to the cherries and the cherries used tangled stems and haunted doors to untangle the hanging skin and they laid him with the lilies and they let him hang over the lilies like a bad memory on a golden street. And the peaches went home to sugar and cream, and they wiped the cherry stains off their walls and they hated the smell that rose on the dark spots and they hated their ice-cream lawns and the thawing gardens and the lilies kept turning red at night and some swore that when they glanced out at night, the houses of the cherries turned into giant blossom trees and lilies the size of their windows, bathed in night and in blood, sat at the feet of the trees and the skin of a cherry hung from each tree, from the stem of torment, a stem made of bruised and rotten peaches, welded together by thickened, bloodied cream. Down on Blossom Lane, there was a war not long ago and the peaches woke up with a hateful dusting of powdered sugar on their lawns and on the days that they did, they waited for it to merge into their thawing ice-cream lawns before stepping on it. Down on Blossom Lane, there was a battle. The peaches woke up with the powdered hate on their windowsills and they marched out into the lane and pushed the trees and the lilies and the bad smell and in a tumble, in a crash, the houses with night for walls and tormented, stemmed doors fell down, hidden by fallen blossom and crystal white lilies with a red smell. The cherries all squashed against their back wall, all skin and all blood.
The peaches dragged the bottom of their lawns taunt, shook off their powdered hate, shoved it so far up into the air it formed candy cotton clouds and the peaches stretched their lawns like new skin over old scars, taunt over the pit-covered lawn, right to the edge of the cherry soaked, blossom lilied mess and the peaches went back inside and gave their walls a fresh coat of grand cream and plumped their whipped cream tops and puffed out the bruises and their rotten spots and they closed their eyes and went to bed and woke with a knotted, haunted stem at their throats and a cherry skin duvet and a lily-blood covered wall and the stem squeezed their little throats shut and the peach row houses all fell forward, as if the lawns gave in like elastic bands and their whipped tops scraped against the blood soaked lilies and all the peaches hung from a cherry stem, haunted and tormented, their blood still inside, their tiny cores still beating, eyes wide awake, fixed on a cherry stained wall, splattered and bruised.

Down on Blossom Lane, there’s no house standing, there’s a row of lilies with a blossom tree and a cherry house. There’s peach houses face-down and powdered lawns, still taunt. Down on Blossom Lane, lived the cherries and the peaches above a pit-covered lane beneath a cotton candy clouded sky.

in feverish forgiveness, until death do us part – 16 may 17

‘Feverish forgiveness’, you whispered before me,
the goddess shrouded in gratification,
melting in a moonwave of love and hate.
At the altar,
all smoke in the chest and burnt brandy in the throat,
you smiled as the blood went down your softened cheeks and was welcomed,
at the sunken chin,
by the hope that I would know what you meant.
The crescendo of the expectation held itself in your trembling chin
and you repeated it again – feverish forgiveness – and I wanted to ask how you knew
it boiled my blood to relinquish the sword but scolded my heart to pursue it –
and so in feverish forgiveness we stand before the almighty ‘I do’
and the blurred, no, marred, yes, charred gratitude,
with which we melt into moonbeams of love,
forged by a hate hardened by our holy cheeks,
unwelcomed by our lofty chins which hold in them a steel expectation,
an always burning crescendo.

-SARU MILLER //16 MAY 2017