The Artisan

mystical signs beckon patrons to enter
new age bling moves all around town
like a carnival goer craving something
entering an opium scented open space
woods, metals and stones sit still moving
defined and undefined shapes seduce
the Takuni sits creating magical jewellery
standing as if a slow spell has been cast
he looks up from the unique creation
I am forever changed by those eyes

An odd weather day

Pockets of sunlight peep from between shy clouds, which sit rather highly in the afternoon sky.

The clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness as The Most lack certain insights.

To clarify, The Most, or the mob, are known by those sweet Greek thinkers of ancient times.

The Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky.

The sun knows The Most are full of bullshit, stinky cow dung, and sloshy old turnips.

The clouds laugh wildly at the sun’s phrasing, which gives them renewed resolve.

There’s a philosophical debate going down on high between the sun and the clouds.

Below, an angel stands still in sunlight and shadow feeling strange tingly sensations.

Sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior, as the armour feels a bit too tight.

“The Most dare not believe in me”, the angel whispers to the clouds as they appear closer.

The sun retreats and the clouds darken,
as the rain bursts forth onto the dry old Earth.

The sun retreats for a nap and the angel
laughs loudly, as droplets touch worn skin.

The Sunflowers

We’re the rebels in your backyard
your sweet-smelling clean closet.

Off they come from that clothesline
we’re takin’ ’em from your hills hoists.

See us as we fuck with your day while breaking
a beat or two as we dance and move.

There’s nowhere for you to hide your
sun-kissed clothes as we pack ’em up.

We’re the morning fresh sunflowers
switchblades of the badass suburbs.