Saying boo to a goose.

Because you speak so little, make even less and I never see you
I take a photo of a flower arrangement you make to celebrate my being where I belong.
It was constructed one bloom at a time,  during a day long circuit between indoors and out.
Greenfly occupy the buds.
I had prepackaged it sentimentally, but now I see
reflected on a the glossy pitch pool of a dormant tv screen
two heads, myself and the animal watcher at my shoulder.

If I should lift this shade's hand away and slip away from you
leave as you slip away from me
Who are you, I love you, who are you, I love you
I love you so much

If I should shift away from so much love
which binds the pupa to the stick good and strong
Life rattles and shakes. Nothing.
Again rattle and shake. Nothing.

Who am I then, unaccustomed as I am
Now to take the stage and sing a song long in the throat.
To emerge with a 'fro in a flowing gown of green paisley silk and hold the mike in coral talons and belt it out.

I love you, who are you, I love you, who are you.

Mothers and sons

In the dream the man was a suitor to  a mother who had a child and that child was seen by the man as someone whom he could torment at his leisure.  But for now he had to win the trust of the mother.
In a sitting room come bedroom in a converted villa frontroom,  a sparse bedsit out of the 70s.
A divan as a sofa. The boy on it.
The man stood in the doorway while the mother tried to tie the  child's shoe lace for instructing the child had proven useless. The man at the doorway continued to give instructions as the  child withdrew his foot which seemed to flop uselessly in front of him. A pseudopod.  The mother  succeeded in getting the thin as hair laces into a lose knot. But the man was not happy, he said he would take the boy on a trip with other boys and they would play with a rope and a metal bell which they could beat the boy with. It was only a tiny bell, it would cause no injury and only do good. When the mother  disappeared the man said to the other boys, lets take the big heavy duty bells and attach those instead.

The man became a small dark haired woman possibly the mother whom I attacked with a surge of outrage, shoving her up against the wall, telling her I found her contemptible and evil and I would destroy her.  Nausea woke me before the alarm.

At the bus stop in a warm summer drizzle, a black winged insect kept landing compulsively on my bare arm below where the sleeve was rolled, again and again it came back battering against me. I thought the moisturiser might prove toxic to its fragile system.

From the bus I saw the elfin woman often seen   around that part of town. She was tiny, dressed as usual in a tremendously  strange yet expensive style. Today she had  on little pointed slippers and white socks. Her glasses which were always exceptional were wrought in delicate metal whorls with decorative intricacies, glasses belonging  to a fairy godmother from the 50s. Her son, whom she had pushed around in a pram  was now a tween languishing against the bus shelter holding a thick
paperback, wearing the glasses and costume of a nouvelle vague hero.