Peace and goodwill to you from wherever you celebrate around this time. And also from all you don’t celebrate Might as well right?
Here, accept all the gifts from all the rash of new and ancient traditions.
I accept it all. At midnight and whenever. So, I give it all to you too. Take it.
For that taste and glow of sacredness I am celebrating the Solstice because there are unicorns involved.
Thanks for providing them, whoever you are.
I suppose they’re the good old pair from the day? Brought to life in a new story then found by you just now?
You know from that unforgettable scene in the production of Good Omens, when the daemon Crowley and the angel Aziraphel, are talking about the impending destruction of all life beginning with the animals parading into the arc.
Crowley, the fallen angel, is questioning the wholesale massacre by water.
Aziraphel, the angel, is going along with the routine genocide.
In the scene, Noah calls out, “Shem! The unicorns are getting away!”
Where did they go?
So glad you found them.
They were the only ones who weren’t going along with the bullshit.
Rare and magical.
I suppose you can free the pair of magical creatures to frolic around in your world so you can watch them from your inner balcony.
I think unicorns may filter into our realm around the corners of the year, when the new season program updates. So perhaps that’s when you are sometimes able to lure them into licking your luck.
Have an enchanted merry happy unicorny day, dears.
An alter to the Spirit of Christmas, the unicorn tree.
A great morning for alchemy Transforming lead to gold
The feeling of soon, it isn’t soon enough Lead has it’s place like “soon” It’s heavy useful and doesn’t shine like my Smithed stuff So, taking the feeling of what I want
The conclusion of soon I close the gap By focusing only on the end So as far as my reality knows
Now I am in your arms Now, I think Best feeling ever! Why wait? To wit, alchemy In a wink
Something
Sucked up the moment
Keeps meticulous notes
The whole thing as it happens kept
Born into patterns
Alive in lives
Traditional me projectile vomits out
Taste becames a home
Meditation takes over the meaning in everything
Falling in love kicks everything else out
Old tastes move home-made soul back in
A project working on itself
Some days lightning strikes
Connecting neurons that never met weld together
A million alive connections align
Pulsing
Life into a story
The sleeping story wakes up
We Talk
Each thing I do
Gets done in me
What I make up
It marks me up
Each choice I make
Is colored paint
My palette is my day
Skillfuly blended
Chosen colors
Artfully painted
Or just mixed up
I make me
Anyway
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please
To be a friend
To write my own way
Have meaningful conversations
Frequent deep play
To publish
To skate
To tell a new story
Get to sashay
Spend time alone
Worship today
Punishment
Turbulent
“When you are betrayed You go to hell”
A feeling place where
What I accuse can breed
So I may live what I judge
Next life
This way
To then succeed
Razor chains dragging horror
Swirled in toxic fumes
Gas ball oozing regret and hate
Chased me out of my room Nightmares Devoure my dreams
How do I know
I wasn’t caught?
What if it’s
A movie making team
Plot twist stirrer
Setting up and recording
Making sure I don’t get boreing
Eventfull dramma
Meaning designer
Not keeping me
Under Glass
The spectrum of pleasure and pain
Each one side of the other
Horror to ecstasy
You can’t hold one
Without cuddling both
Honor to shame
Like all good stories
Evil’s designed into this game
Tiny water spirits
Conceived in every cloud
Born in falling drops
Liquid bodies rush
Through the air
Alive in this bottle
Shower lake and pool
Granting every flush
A river animal
Yearnings in her waves
Dancing the bends
Falling down for days
Becoming the ocean
Manning the clouds
Can she wait
To be poured into a glass
Perhaps the ninety-eight
Deprive my soul thingy
Of stories to collect
Of desperate choices
Dangerous encounters
Clashing wills
Dark nights
Triumph of wills
Irreplaceable loss
Implacable spirit
Brocken open hearts
Catalysts story arcs
Unexpected twists