The muse has come again and she left me this new piece. The little tart has been especially attentive of late, which makes me strangely suspicious, however I will take her gifts quite happily. This one was actually percolating in the twisted alembics and retorts of my mental alchemist’s lab for a bit, to finally gather drip by slow drip of black ink onto the pages of my notebook. It’s a little more fanciful than I have been of late, but I thought a bit of whimsy has been missing from this blog, so it came out rather nicely if I may say so myself, even though not quite as I had envisioned. That happens though, these things twist and wriggle under my mental fingertips like slick trout in the stream and I can only catch what I can. As always, I hope this finds a home inside one of you out there, faithful followers of the imposter. Maybe just a little bit of wonder will settle inside you, I really hope it does. Cheers all

I suppose I could be called
A hoarder of sorts
I step from the confines
Of my small, solitary room
In my great black coat
Walk invisible through the streets
The shadow twinge
In the corners of eyes,
Subtle tremor shiver passing
The spines of passers by.

Children run jump skip splash
Puddles rising in prism spray
Shiny PVC raincoats
Summer yellow boots
Gleam slick
Jewel bright drops
Mingle with crystal tinkling laughter
I gather up the pieces
Joy and wonder
Slipping diamonds into my pockets.

In dim coffee shops
I sit next to lonely boys
Collections of awkward geometries
I drip slow honey into their ears
Play Cyrano from the covert of shadows
To their fumbling Christians
All the while nimble finger plucking
The longing
Throbbing aches
Stringing them out into rosaries
Of delicious pain.

Perched on the back
Of park benches
Between lovers
Delicately magpie snatching
The intimacies laced
In the creases
Between woven fingers
Bottling mingled breath
Drawn from the infinite anticipation
Preluding kisses.

At the feet
Of melancholy girls
Gathering strands of sorrow
Crimson thread veins
Mapping geographies
Rivers of doubt, fears in cliffs, sweeping loneliness of empty plains
Winding it all up tight
Around my fingers
As I try to turn my eyes
Mirror bright for their glancing
Hoping they might glimpse
Their own peculiar particular beauty.

Wending along avenues
Broken stump crumbling marble
Stones weathered by time
And the weight of reverent hands
I pluck the fruits
Of these bone orchards
Blue black succulence
Drips of elegies, sighs, weepings,
Breast and brow beatings
A harvest of grief
Rich and bountiful
Filling my basket to overflowing.

I steal the songs
Of thrushes and sparrows
Gather the sparkles
From rain washed pavements
Artful dodger lift
Coal black buttons
From the waistcoat of every fifth snowman,
Cup in my hands
The wicked smokey orange
Coiling in crook smiled
Jack ‘o lanterns
All gets stuffed and stowed
Pockets brimming
Snuff boxes full of fallen petals,
The bright dusty wings
Of butterflies
Mason jars of moon shine
Beads spun from gossamer spiderweb
Meshed into plaited wires
Of copper or cold black iron.

I return by way of the dusk
Slipping into the wall crack doorway
Of my room
The collected treasures spilling
Running out from between my fingers
I hang them from the rafters
Pin them to the doorframe
Or the window sashes
Strew them across the floor
To sit among them
Stare at their wonder
I live amongst these fragments
A million, billion glittering
Fugitive pieces
They lull me to sleep
To my own dreams
Constant whisper rustling
Telling me their stories
My hoard of gathered lives.


2 Responses to “Hoarding”

  1. tom's thistle Says:

    a tale of the writer’s daily rounds

  2. Really love it. It is fun and whimsical and stirs the imagination.

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