self-portrait (morning mop)

after bunny rogers

 

every morning.
mop myself up off the kitchen floor; there’s violet & lilac; azure & indigo; turquoise & teal.
running down into the cracks, between the floorboards.
i am all mess and no substance, as certain figureheads would probably say.
my dreams are not this weird.
usually i teeter on the edge of the unreal; the frayed rope between neon and grey clouds pregnant with rain.
rain falls & replaces me.
i am only untidy due to hue; clear water is not troubling.
(perhaps only the sink leaking?)
it is when violet is involved that things become worrying (for purple is the most vexing colour; unsettlingly close to blue- the easiest colour to see.)
things are always most alarming when they are only not-quite right.
but back to the mopping of myself; the splintered wooden pole, with its soft malleable feet, is my partner.
we dance the foxtrot (if Hesse is to be believed / this is the easiest of the dances).
twist, twist, twist.
the mop is a beautiful thing; by itself it does not clean up.
merely collects the dirt & preserves it.

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self-portrait (morning mop)

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