Nanopowrimo2021

 Nepenthe tenax Is not common Does not crowd our streets with its dustbin lid mouth Does not celebrate its ubiquity Does not get much in the way of an article on Wikipedia Does not spare the lip Does not care for the sun when it has a monkish belly full of fly prayers Does not care for winters Is not anything like your great aunt on your mother's side Is not the object of desire for raindrops grown fat and lazy in the canopy Is unaware of the instrument of itself, the mixture of the phallus and the womb, the aquaplane of vase,the veins of bulb. Its ancestors did not hide, exactly but lipsticked and erected themselves in rows in night glasshouses Is not poplar or popular Is not your mother's beauty Is not your father's suit though it contains multitudes by classification Is not your mournful trombone, is a cornucopic song Is not exactly like your fear but is, the sun soaking at the point most delicate Is no rose, but stranger Is not new, but so old it forgets Is not a sky p...

Avec conviction et avec une tristesse rigoureuse This song is to be played with a rigorous sadness The song is to be played with a light melancholy Though you can't hear my music, it plays in my film Piano creeps in the movie with a rigorous sadness My movie is building the sense of my character Shadows move around me with a rigorous sadness With muted laughter, the bit parts, the extras mime my lines with a rigorous sadness. I drink my coffee in the movie of me In the cafe where the worlds collide, the lives of others in many songs. The rain is a scene in the movie of me, on the actors' faces a rigorous sadness.

 Day 26..obscure emotion Fernweh...homesickness for somewhere you have never been Fernweh...homesickness for somewhere you have never been What is home, you ask? And I’m silent, though I want to say, it's what we are . The words you make say one thing when you mean another - a hiss like insects in the August language. The future is 10 hours drive and drift to an island where absolutely everybody wears your name, every profession is your namesake, and every friend you make will look like you. You say you'll go there when you're older- the path along the sticky tongue of land, speaking water's name, then, easy as a lizard sheds its tail, you'll be stone's throw across the sound, with boats built to carry only you and your own kin, shoring up those lullabies, beaching you for winter. Looks like a good spot to sit out the end of the world- an acre or so, a small croft on the ocean side where the land remembers, is borne upon its own back. Perhaps you’ll get that ho...

 Day 25, dreaded sestina. Confession.. I got the line scheme wrong,realised I had only 5 lines per stanza, ran out of time and gave up!  Kill dead your car on the hard shoulder,  open up your door, get out and look,  step through the gold fields  and keep on walking; soon you seem to float  - this this is how you vanish.   It doesn't take an accident to vanish-  careful, check the world over your shoulder,  open your eyes, wide blue and look.  The far fields dream their dreams, and keep  no notice of your progress - you can float.   If you have promises to keep,  forget them, darling, simply float  in the sky that blazes everywhere you look,  like drift and pollen, see they seed and vanish;  your mother waves one last time, turns her shoulder.   I know you want to be here, still you vanish,  can never stick the roots down, up and float.  It's cold, you shrug the new day over...

 Monster No I.. I the momster monster who would only pen words about myself. My horns are not outer but the other way My foxbrush curled for chance appearances Whether you see my claws or not depends on lunar cycles. Often, a monster squats on her own work Or she flounders-splashes, see the muddy waters Her ungraceful but oddly smallish footmarks stomp all over the vellum of the page She says she'll try to keep herself out of the present poem, but here We are- you can almost feel her breath as she fawns over the object and the subject opens her mouth, then devours them. She bursts through the door, through the paper of a drum, dressed in red and boredom. She devastates the queendom of 'not all about you'.

    Yes, we roost, birds on music on John Carpenter street- this is, has always been in the great city of London - we’re slickly honoured to find work here in crowlike sight, 75 metres long. She has the Unique Reference Number 8100298 in the Apocrypha Gazetteer. 7.27 metres above sea level, 23.6 miles North East of Woking, God knows how far from the centre of the earth   We speak Norse, we hiss the runes in flames, we scorch and strip. We have the curve and unconscience of snakes, we rear and reticulate, we viper and rail opinions. We layer and unlayer, beggar Shakespeare, plague pit, hyper roman, Celt. Maybe its because we’re Londoners, we sleuth through history, we are both ourselves and symbols, speak serpentine with knowledge - worms that call the apple England