Fibromyalgia Snail

Fibromyalgia Snail

I want to live there, of course:
Whorled, pretty perfect, echoing
The ouroboros, the labyrinth, but homelier
Within its calcium domain is sanctity
But also juicy fat gollops of greasy
Slurry which organises the little engine
To walk, if walking is a shivering
Of muscle aches and contained
Abandon. How my blood leaps
To be within a pink space
Neither hot nor cold, but coldhot
Flux. It is a symbol, the spiral
But that wrecks me
My synapses rap ticktack
Trying to find the root
The old root of mathematics
The Minotaur in his cave
Theseus dead cool down there
Picasso in his psychopathic
State of narcolepsy, a hand full
Of dust, so I keep going
Looking for my favourite leaf
On which to suck.

 

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Little kings

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Little kings

With stalked goggle eyes
They survey the terrain
A rich dessert of sweet veins
Each cries
I am me!
I want you to do what I say

Finding no solace in sunlight
Or rain, or shining dew
Need
Greedy as acid

As soon as they chomp Lettuceland
They want another

They batten on the earth
In sticky digestive marmalade
As she boils in her core.

Dollish- from my new book on Lulu

 

dollish cover jpgDollish

I am not doll, but sometimes wish to be
Featherweight, a flying thing with tinted wings
A flowing dark dot in a minnowed brook
A tiny teacup full of lime green juice
Drink me, they say, eat me, I don’t.

I have a way of looking
Which is astonished bewilderment
A little sharp razor which is words
A dob of paint and a needle to stitch up
Any seams that pop
Sometimes my legs and arms are fearful
The joints pulled out so they dangle
Those are bits that no one sees

Other times I slip gracefully into bed
Wearing my butterfly pin and my silver wig
I am guessing you wish to love me
After a Fête Galante of chat ups?

But do it the way of a witch
Mind the buttons and cotter pins
My indifference to mortal things
Remember I am antique.

Wollstone Craft

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Veronica’s poetry collections are all available on Amazon

Wollstone Craft

In the gloom,  furbelows puff stiffer than a peacock tail
My eyes take on a stoic gleam as the mirror sheens and shimmies
Up the brazen fireplace to the lambrequin enfolded windows…
I am stuffed as much as the pine martin in the bell jar
The doodads on the pianoforte flick their musty passementerie
Emboldened by the aspic air, the isinglass of eggs
I am button backed this evening, when I think of you
Fished up on an enchanted shore
Where mildew can never creep along your edges
Nor book mites eat your face
St John Ersthwhile Hughes-Fortinbrass
A lover invented in so much haste
Is just as good as books
and so
I gaze out upon the paralysed Park
A hyena in a petticoat, imbibing belladonna
And laudanum, sublingually, my dear.

 

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved

 

Veronica’s poetry collections are all available on Amazon