From betwixt the secluded island abundant with giants’ pinecones, luminous arteries hike up their taut sleeves and stretch with all their might – as if to brush the watery duck-egg from below. Fire opals grace the spiralling pond with their pink flames. They lap the surrounding pond, painted murky by the artist’s used brush, rinsed clean with their fiery tongues.
A blue tit skims a stagnant pool; for a moment longer, a thistled creature clings, snoozing upon a wispy blade of grass.
A bumbling bee brushes the golden weed; for a moment longer, golden dust speckles its hairy back.
A coffee laden spider scrambles over tangled grass; for a moment longer, the lanterns bathed in green breathe in, and breathe out.
A fly, wings amiss, wiggles antennae to the breeze of the wind.
The midnight whale wails with sorrow, mourning the soon departed. Cloaked in amber, the hollow expanse of tasteless perpetuum ignores its cries. Just out of palms’ reach, see the aged faces clouded with overbearing pity.
My longing to become submerged in the depths of the grassland’s chasm, overwhelms and incapacitates me. Any ability I thought were mine to even shift in this cramped, precarious four-cornered microcosm (a paraphrased idea from the great Sōseki), has been shrouded by obscurity and defiance. Perhaps, I ponder, once (and also if -I laugh-), I reach the ‘three-cornered world’, tranquility will engulf me. I am without a doubt, however, that at this moment in time my being is far from adhering to such an absurd and splendid world.
Droplets raise their greeting as I forlornly retreat from the cradle of the countryside’s serene grasp, and home of pillowed grass. The snoozing larva encased in mustard remains still unperturbed, undisturbed by mother nature’s beckon to return to the realm of civilisation.
Beneath the magnolia tree, and cloaked in limpid gossamer, the fly contemplates its glistening austere kingdom from atop the fourth finger of a nine fingered hand.
As a heart falls to pieces amongst ashes of the golden gaze, sullen faces peer downwards through their decaying wooden rings. Honey-like pollen encompasses their wounds, restlessly.
As I descend into delirium.
Each night dreams of divine
Warmth press firm to mine.
Ants upon their merry-go-round of marmalade-tinged leaves, jitterbug around the other, and vanish.
Fickle cats entice my affection from amid their amphibious dwellings. Through the gentle drift of the old man’s beard, the love boat ambles onward.