Sometimes I put letters on a page and they start to mean things.
Almost always, the anticipation is worse than the deed, but the deed is a slow murder of comfort. I become an irony of fluids: palms slippery, mouth
By Lex Cee2 years ago in Poets
Delegate the work! Imagination beckons. Slivers of a new world Tangle behind my eyes: Regard me! they say. Ascend into the clouds!
By Lex Cee3 years ago in Poets
slosh and plunk in the watering tin squelch of wellies sinking in • white jewel sun glints overhead diamond showers
Eyes lock, back to space — Iris the shape of Neptune And the colour too
there's no bad news but you rub your palms on your jeans they come away blue
petrified teardrop soars high, perennial shrine to giant's mourning
breathless alpinists climb to the top of the world just to feel smaller
On some primal level, there’s a familiarity to this feeling — the thirst, the headache, the fog shrouding my awareness. I can recognize the hum of white noise and the faint shivering of the bed beneath me, and when I open my eyes in the dark, I know I’ve been here before.
By Lex Cee3 years ago in Fiction
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. For a time it was thought that nothing stirred there at all, except for the dead. No one knew this better than the Sly, who hollowed out the Valley’s hills to fill with the bodies of their brethren, and watched as its rivers washed away the blood. Not even the Sly children at their wildest age dared set foot there, for the old nursery song made it clear what awaited them:
By Lex Cee4 years ago in Fiction
The sun won’t set over Florence tonight. It bleeds from tears in the tissue-thin clouds, Crimson burning through Tuscan yellow light,
By Lex Cee5 years ago in Poets
