Our Favourites

All tomorrow’s songs blend together, into a white wolf in a plain of snow.

Where had the piano gone? They vanished, into a pearlescent grayzone. The chanting of northern stars. 

A perfect haphazard. Right place, wrong era, but the time is right. A pellucid lemon slice upon the amber lake. Like a free fall, into autumn.

Perhaps and beyond.

I hear from the winter whisperer, is it smoke, or is it warm air from your sigh? Tenderly, of course. Like cello and caviar. 

I recorded some lines, from a poem written while dreaming, in board daylight. Couldn’t remember the exact composition, but lines, lines everywhere, they kept buzzing, kept fluttering by.

Something about lemonade, exchanged reciprocally. One can only take so much ice, before drowning.

We live for the white noises, which happen before the song officially ends.

2019.10.

By Aran Meredith.