Radïo Scrïptures

The wind Trickles me into the crevices still undiscovered. I dance with LA grenouille verte. Cette une maladie inguérissable, Lolita me dit. Petite génie tout Jaune bouclé! I believe her and love her for it,                                  the precious little Alice bird that captures my Truth when I am not looking. Flakes descend from the frozen skies of the East, The Witches of the Mont Cackle, Call and Prepare                                   the next SweaT of collected wet eyeballs that turn                                   in the skulls of the ignorant. Stones are selected, counted, placed in a simple burning row. They wait for the clarity that will arrive through the streams of the Aurore, reaching deeply into the...

the whispering creaks in to hide the black deafness that resides in my palm call the stretching violin out of the woods let it ride my back screaming me outwards blinding the light only to capture my looming eyes sit there oh old one and wait your cage will hold you still while I tear through the center the plastic, the bricks, the promises, the sweet taste of dust takes over suck it up! suck it tight! suck it whole into your yellow-bellied face no longer will the mirror crash us into the cyclone of narcissistic needs come to me now and shower my wings one feather at a time strumming one feather at a time drumming now ! it comes ! it seeps into the whispering creaks of silent walking.

Your grief is your love, turned inside-out.  “Grief does not change you… It reveals you.”  ~ John Green

ça coule ça roule la boule descends entre mes... entre mes doigts keep exploding nearer and nearer to the fields of time passing every tingly sweet time i miss you dear partner whispering ever so gently into the wind next to my scalp i miss you love singing into my nostrils i miss you where are you hiding? where are you sliding? the slopes are calling time stretches us pulling moments further from our fingertips will they forget one day? will your dust still be present when i pass through? the slipping onto your wrist will gracefully stay on my skin the turning of my heart onto yours is locked into time ça coule, ça roule, la boule

Woman, Femme. Be. The fire will burn what you are not. All witches know this.

So being here is exceptionally funny as barbarrraaaaaaa stares gracefully through the space in between my eyeballs glazing forward with discriminatory silence of the fluids dripping down the corner of my mouth into the space between my toes grooving endlessly up the floor of my patience needing to keep on dreaming wildly about windhorses creeping red into the tunnels of my ear sockets buzzing vibrations rising into the streaming headless disappearances of quivering floating spines breaking the rhythm of my speech trickling from corner to corner of the glass house of windless pink curtains hanging to the ceiling of my rooftop saliva climbing all around branches beeping love missing me in the backup room of velvet black stockings drowning out the pulsations of my trembling lips to your forehead eye twirling my body in furious grasping to keep my extension longly fully dense in the crevice of the painted wall crackling the chipping colors to meet my eating heart reach...

Windmills running through the floor. Why does it make me so sad to be told that i don’t listen?  Que je n’est pas d’écoute.

I miss I miss the simplicity I miss the funny times I miss the walks the huggies the shnoozles the kick ass coffee lying in the field

HanGing my Toes on the TIPS of the floating CloudS... I see the RED circles of LiQUid Harmony placing my Heart in the space in-between each STEP. I can see the FLLLiiiiiiiCker of tenderness beating down on the skin that drops UP into a glass Pinnacle of lONEly wakefullNESS. CRY LOUDly so to CLear the waves that Rumble silently through YOUR eyes.