There’s a nest which sits well above my heart.
I’d like to say it was the home of a wren
But it belongs to a raven.
It is clever, heavy, wicked and wise
And it sees you.
My raven collects things,
Tiny metallic objects
Which nestle in the twigs above my heart.
I’d like to say they shimmer and shine,
But they cut
Forcing me to grow scar tissue in places
I never thought I would.
My raven tells me things,
Whisperings in its croaking voice
Chants like those from outside of sound.
I’d like to say it is made of music,
But they are maniacal and truthful,
All the things that make me breed
Just a little more madness
Just a little more hate.
There’s a nest above my heart
And it presses like a coldness,
Pushes like a heaving force,
And lands me in a world of trouble.
I have no glue
I have no pieces
I have no heart
I wasn’t made for heat
I was meant to feel frost
And chill and cold breeze
I wasn’t made for the beach
I was meant for harbours and
Watching sail boats upon the blue
I wasn’t made for feeling rushed and fast
I was meant to meander
Wander, take time and use it well
I wasn’t made for anger
I was meant for smiles,
Connections, moments and forgiveness
I wasn’t made for monopolies
I was made to stroll markets
Scour small, tucked in hideaways
Where little pieces
And food tastes better from
I wasn’t made for reading novels
From a screen
I was meant to flick pages
Smell them, wear down spines,
Absently rub away corners
And hear the ‘swish’ sound
Of a turned page
I was meant for only using black pens,
Foggy days, good wine, great company,
Dignity, loving acceptance,
Chance, equality and the calm sounds
Sweet swept air
Of horizons reach
Takes hands and hearts
Upon whispered breath
As all becomes closer
And more wilful
With its sturdy pull
As lines of coast
Stretch engulfing arms
Take me within your promise
Of so much
Of such great and true
Let me breathe it
And feel its beating heart
So I may take
From the world
Upon your shores
Agnes lives in a world of paper. It is a world without movement, only still life, single little pieces which form at her whim and live in a scene of her creation. Agnes has a secret, she does not cut the pieces with scissors, she bites them, curling her tongue around each shape, making slender folds and gentle rips until with teeth pressed together she can form the head of a bird, a donkey or perhaps the slender back of a supine man. Agnes feels that with every tear and every lick she is a part of the creatures she creates. They lay before her and she can see them move without her touch, as if her insides have made them real, where the soft feathered sides thank her for the love she took in making them, the edges so perfect in their form that she relishes their taste, which still lingers upon her sensitive palette as her tongue often weeps blood for the pain which creates the figures in front of her.
Agnes has a box, in fact, Agnes has many boxes all around her house and each box has a paper display of figures and of plants, animals and houses and of trains and tables and little tiny dresses and wee matching shoes with buttons. All of them painstakingly licked and torn and bitten to existence and if one were to take down the box, one could put together a scene of such complexity that in its creation you would find Agnes’ memories laid out in paper overlay, one scene of many intricate pieces; such tiny little fragments of creation.
Agnes keeps her heart in little boxes and lives in a world of paper.