Measure

In suspended time, I watch
the gears kiss, intertwined, their
teeth fitting into one another
with perfect ease. Metal mouths
in shared labour, producing
objects lesser than the sum of
its parts.

A mind tinkers away at the machine’s
organs, tip-tapping the beating heart
abreast the congested breaths
heaving in an over-boiled temper,
monstrous,
seething in gasps and grunts, a glint
of threatening metallic fangs.

Time swims languidly toward the shore,
Unsure of direction, meaning, chronology,
Biting my flesh, leaving lines for
my recollection.
In laughter, they are clearest,
thrusting their happiness into
my being.

A mirror reveals them, a reflection
that is me, but not me. There but
also here. Reality slips into
a displacement that soothes
my soul, for it finally shows
the chaos I know,
suspended in uncanny
being.

© Kat Manica

Inscrutable

There are words here, pasted on the
walls, dripping onto waste-paper floors,
dissolving into pools of serrated,
gnawing letters at our feet.

Letters that once signified,
lose their thingness as they are
abstracted into nothing but
peas and queues, eyes and
teas.

Dreams lost, meaning
jettisoned
away…

Into that place where secrets
are kept, locked, nuanced and
scented with the sweet perfumed
day dreams of our conspiring
unconsciousness.

Out stumbles hope, to soothe
our tired feet, which have trekked
over bladed pens and sharp-witted
words, with heavy burdens
and little respite.

Our tummies full, fluttering
with gratification–delayed and
fulfilled– Sleep-filled lids drop,
taking us far away from
prescribed meaning to
inscrutable delight
to be.

 

© Kat Manica

Number the Stars

O! that I could but count the stars,
Like the the sparkle of thine eyes,
An accountant of the highest order
Would fail to account for their beauty,
Their infinite capability to see
Goodness, where I have only seen
Pain, decimation, and abuse.

Constellations vie to amuse this pen,
As though Heracles vanquishing dragons
Could embolden the wittiest thinkers
Past cosmetic literary contrivance,
When, in your eyes, dawns ebullient
Metaphysics and epistemological truths
that inspire at their core.
O! what a muse are these eyes,
That alight from temporal existence
To celestial spheres.

Fluttering amber light unfolds,
Deep pools of reflective light,
O’er which fairies dance in exultant delight,
As pleasure decants in mellifluous tones,
Roses unroll their coiled petals,
A fragrant dance of perennial buds,
And sweet perfume intoxicates,
The inscrutable chasm between us that
Binds us in our reticence as incessant
Mortal hearts thud on.

O! that I had but immortality to
Stare into the skies evermore,
And see the sharp glare of thine eyes
For hours, days, and years;
The sweet taste of five minutes
Is a rationed sup over which I relish
In perpetuity.

O! that I could but count the stars
On this cold, cold night.

© Kat Manica 2017

Gobble Spiders

I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
gobbling up spiders
into the ether, quietly.

I don’t wish the spiders to be dead,
Okay, it’s complicated,
but maybe
I do.

I know they eat the other things
that are too small for
us to see.
I also know that centipedes

hunt them, rather–
rather gleefully.
I don’t want the ghost
of a centipede to walk

with me.
Maybe just an arachnologist
who isn’t finished her
work quite yet.

It would be harmony
and synchronicity,
and there would be less
spider corpses

hiding under
the spines of
the brave books
that protected me.

Yes, I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
Then my cold hands,
Would simply mean

our hands were interlaced,
and the shivers of my spine
would signify a spectre
of warmth hereafter.

 

 

 

 


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