quitvision Pieces, Writing

Flowing Indigo Grass

It felt more like home than it ever had last night. My shoebox apartment, tiny and neat spatial divisions like the architecture of a micro-machine toy. But then the artists are invited and the plastic is poured in with gruesome spilling details. Just like my place.

My old home was inaccessible, I had handed in the keys. Keys that jangled against my new set and reminded me for weeks before of the old cellar door left open to swing on its hinges in the wind. Creaking scenes and demands from old times I can feel as they reach my ears, like the photons of millennia-dead suns only just reaching your night sky to rain romantic starlight seasoning across a colossal mouthed valley above the moors, impaled on the cold draft from space that gently combs and caresses the endless texture of flowing indigo grass at the borders of this cratered moonrock lot in every direction, encasing entire colliding galaxies that float in the reflections of liquid silver puddles of molten mirror, like wormholes bore out of the heavy purple dust, slipping right through to horizons of space past the underside of this dark planet. Feet on its ground and you feel some way. Take it all in, they’ll say, as if that’s a fair request. As if that’s possible at all. As if that’s a choice you’re making to discard more than you’ll ever have room to take with you.

quitvision Poems, Writing

Swallow Hard

I’m always wrong
And so are you
Maybe that’s alright
When what we thought was right falls through
And it won’t make sense
To us anymore
Pieces fit worse and worse
The harder that we pound on that jigsaw
Of an ugly scene
And physics distort
Until gravity follows forced shapes
It’s direction spins unsure

Tearing our belief from us with it
Scaring us with what we’ve done, as we smash into new logic

Swallow hard
It’s ok
It feels better to apologise
Than to avoid the pain
Part of life is to be right
Part of life is to be wrong
Part of life’s to be responsible
For both of them

I’m always wrong
And so are you
Maybe that’s alright
As long as we try to
Accept sure mistakes
Realise we suck
Sometimes but so does every human that we know
And every human that we love
Imperfection’s built
Into stubborn minds
So there’s nothing to be proud of
Until we let go of our pride

Feeling the bruising blame ain’t fun but it’s
Accepting weakness to stay decent
and balance the wrongs of natural incompetence