Poem: Miel Fou Morning

Miel Fou Morning

I swear if I hear one more time about the stickiness of affect

last night I dreamt I went enmandibled again

none of my passwords are password and what is more

attachment unavailable

refreshing stream

This morning’s CAPTCHA demanded
a whole different alphabets to prove a baseline of humanity

algorithymic logorrhea, cask-strength proof
there is no clockwork movement to my joists  my hinges

honey and milk are under thy tongue
and the smell of thy garments is
a psalmly simile

the same way that weather affects the taste of wine

the soft palate of my waking sings       churlish with root-snaggled sleep

oh is it only Tuesday        I’ll be forgetting my own head next

I cannot look at you for grace because of grace
here     marmaladled and manhandled

where clemency sticks in the throat
finding you beneath your breath

dang bro            oh honey            pull your socks up

There should at least be some small comfort
in translating the insects correctly—
multitudinous seas cicardanine? just not cricket?
a giddy gadfly caddis caddish
cockroach morning, Gregor?

our dreams of futures cuspid, or something docked
—not harboured safe but as one might curtail a terrier,
docked as pay might be,

rising with the posture of a cormorant,
jettied and drying
dang bro            oh honey

to winter as a verb

to cinch, but all the honeys
come pulled from snouts of rhododendrons

puce-harshed by beetongued hearts—

it will drive us all mad              should damn us fully—
I am only wearing socks, don’t know which way is up
unless I bubble-follow the thin-skinned air,

its slow Tuesday direction through a slough of gold

uncoxed toxins pulled through the comb.

I dreamt-dreamed of such philosophies             fretted
with golden burnts, and burned smeltings,

smouldering and shouldering their augment
nonesuching on the hillside within its flavours

(the shorthand, patience, would have you wake with me
with coffee, tell me the sea is not a selfish black,
that I was thinking only of a night’s thicknesses,
that one tarries only in the shouldering of flitches.

—there is a simplicity of oranges and toast and tea—

but tarred and reaching

for you through the unthought and ill-fledged brand

I bid you break the fastest moments,
fasten nothing tight enough to bind us back)

By Eley Williams.

Drawing by Alex Brew.

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