Blue

I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There are music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.

Don’t ignore my screams, I’m trying to speak to you.

You never listen when I talk about how the sheep leave violets on the stairs, or how the kangaroo next door wants to come over for dinner. The flowermaid says a crimson star will pass come noon-time, and I’m sorry to inform you, but Jesse let the kettles burn.

Now come, listen now.

L is such a lovely letter, so elegant and longing. It flows beautifully into every lost word, like a river into a lake, a lavender lily floating down the lane. “Hold my daisies,” she said, galloping into the red winter midnight. The canopy is only made for soup and spinach. I keep losing my thoughts under old cinnamon stovetops and behind crusted-white counters, inside fresh-baked ovens and the upturned oak tree. Don’t let them know about the fire hydrant, and those with circus trouble aren’t welcome inside. Fresh buns and a newly-set dinner table where the crown-shaped napkins and the knives that are on the wrong side of the plates are waiting for Christmas dinner. Let’s sit around the fire stove, while the grandfather clock ticks a story to children. The frosted fire burns blue and white, leaving all but ash by midnight. Niel, stop singing, your satanic songs (though lovely to my ears) are going to raise the garlic bread. Our snowflake fizz in golden beer couldn’t look more like morning glory. Goodness me! Winter’s coming and we haven’t even started our toast.

By the way, where I find my ideas is where it’s raining, somewhere else.