the petal girl
skin silk pink
onion thin
blush
crepe paper sun-streaked fuchsia
and in
rain
battered
bruised
membrane
in
heat, frilled
unfresh edged
lettuce-leaf veined
browned in crush
curled
too sheer to
squeeze
still
beautiful
Photo: Claire Doble
pink
Memory Car
when you drive it, memories come out
memories
of the memory car
the memory car has got a switch that can turn it on and off
do you know what it can go?
very fast!
there also is a backseat
for you
it’s so big
for you to get in
you can’t open the door
if you want to get in
because there is no door
we have to jump into the memory car
do you know what the memory car is?
it’s so long
do you know what it’s got?
a fire top
do you know where the memories all go?
out the roof
and like a pink one lands in my hand
can you drive it?
This was the Day 13 prompt (yesterday) to write about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive. This was a “found poem” taken mostly verbatim from something my four-year-old was telling me.
Heartplace
it was pink and curved
it was black thick-pile velvet
it had the tacky floor of a Camden boozer
and it smelled like clothes
in the morning
before
the smoking ban
small enough
to hold in one hand
forearms rest on thighs
an imperfect fleshy sphere
a soggy cosmetic sponge
pink-brown, is that my skintone?
outdated, like a cord-phone
a soaked-in scent of hangovers
fumes of long ago
mine, tongue-smooth, alone…
lazy, comfortable, like home
Soundcloud recording: https://soundcloud.com/user-808707280/heartplace
Image: https://unsplash.com/@agebarros
clairevetica 