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Poems from the Nature of Daylight zine.
My room is a poor man’s coffin,
my bed, a bed of half-dead roses caught in languid bloom,
is the space between my faerie dreams and sacrosanct melancholy.
Most of my days are spent either sitting or sleeping,
moving in and out of semi-permanent states of consciousness,
confi ned to my room with just a mirror and a window,
I am the lady of shallot, obsessively pulling at my hair
as they are the strands of time pilling at my feet.
I’ve become an unreliable narrator of my own existence, like the ambiguously queer Nick
from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby,
my heart succumbing to the weight of my proletariat woes,
unconcerned now about the coming revolution.
Outside walks the naive marmot,
inspecting the rebellious dandelions that roar beneath my window,
unaware that the world continues to burn in this panasonic,
amid the jubilant evening song of the busy starlings and lilac-scented summertime breeze.