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)

koi carp

just
under the surface
a show of shining perfection
tranquil
pure beauty

it is a shame

scales
as on a dragon
puffing fire, brimstone in myth
fairy-tale
cover flesh

it is a waste

face
rearing up for air
oblique bubbles breaking surface
water
streaming tears

miraculous

girl
growing from nothing
in warm wet culture of cells and
glowing
this makes you

it is a myth

you
under the surface
groaning in silence uh uh uh
shining
your beauty:

is only shame.

koi carp