part auto-biographical 

went to a school named after a politician and another one named after bees
my dad smelt of wood in those young days of heatwaves 
where the tarmac melted into school books covered with wallpaper
        a broken leg and lacrosse sticks 
back then 

there were more planets 

in the solar system 
above the ground of verdant Albion 

I could always see the stars 
and I wake up and recreate the same routines and tie laces on new white trainers and old scuffed shoes 
a vague memory of a spinning top spinning on un-carpeted floors that just span 
my mothers ankles as I crawled 
my father smelt of wood 

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6 comments

  1. multiplemichael

    BABY BIRD—-YOUR FATHER SMELLED LIKE WOOD
    because he was carved out of wood
    indistinguishable
    your father was programmed by aliens
    to mimic human behavior
    your mother said that he never reflected his true self
    only requirements imposed from the craft
    ( proof ) just remember any attempt at humor

    Like

    • eatmorewords

      your Pinocchio father
      those splintered cuddles at bedtime

      at the Florida beach suntanned / varnished and shiny
      – your mother polished him daily

      he came with instructions and a set of screws

      Like

      • multiplemichael

        all men of wood
        recognized by the root of their name
        no seed for those from the Garden
        no seed for those from the Ark
        Christians with their holy decimals
        ****gravitational at best

        Like

      • eatmorewords

        wooden men of brittle bark – wooden men rooted to the spot
        wooden men the trees on the street –
        21st century malaise
        THE NAUSEA
        stationary in times that move so fast
        overtaken by information
        overtaken and left behind
        – wooden man
        moved the decimal point closer to the whole number

        Like

    • eatmorewords

      a word per page the longest story ever told – chapter one was delivered in six articulated trucks –
      blistered fingers from all that page turning

      it’s never about the length

      Like

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