Dark Ages

She thinks in exotic colours that drip off her tongue like sharp shining jewels formed somewhere deep in the permafrost of her, the grey matter thrives in the lava somewhere rising inside the lux velvet crimson pulsing at the core of her, and births diamonds that drip off her tongue like icicles that could pierce and shatter a heart or could melt them just the same He is like a rhesus monkey quite short in mind, small in sound, oh, but never sound, the expression on his face, wanting, eternally perplexed, the value of his thoughts jumbled, his darting hirsute mind running zealous riots around invisible conquests in neverending schizoid circles, rattling the bars of his cage just for attention, his words form strangely for a species trapped in his own dark age, each day hardly speaking but his mind screaming, passing his hand through his thinning hair he is time poor holding a cup out for love to the monkey grinder all seems lost in poetic translation yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning, the small ritualistic routines regularly delivered in bed before sleep and upon waking for one cannot survive without the other; it’s in the feeding, not in the taking Candide Diderot. ‘24