My symbiant left me,

she took all the fuel,

revenge’s best served cold

but this is so cruel

I’d point the main thrusters,

set course in pursuit,

but she broke the airlock,

and tore up the suit.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

I’m patching my cruiser

my ship is a mess,

our last go misused her,

that black hole , the stress.

she said that she liked it,

that symbiant ’f mine,

then took all the fuel cells,

boy, she had her fun.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

Now sitting here thinking;

oh, where things gone wrong?

what was it that made me,

end up drifting alone,

oh, was it the larva,

that got in the way?

the scales? the antenna?

The man-meat buffet?

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

I’m not getting desperate,

I still have some air,

and I can still hibernate,

on the control chair,

but sitting there frozen,

I won’t catch that witch,

so better try something,

and fix up the breech.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

And while I am patching,

the vacuum, the cold,

then out of the darkness,

a sight to behold!

another jalopy,

is drifting quite near

it’s beat up and holed up,

but still has some gear!

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

So I’m jumping over

I rigged up a rope,

the other ship’s busted,

but I have some hope,

and if there’s some people

that’re waiting inside,

survivors taste better,

when there’s nowhere to hide.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

All ripped up, this ship has,

the engine is shot,

most systems are red-lined,

but fuel they still got.

and there’s one survivor,

she looks pretty fierce,

the rayguns go flashing,

and my suit gets pierced.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

I wake up all tied up,

electrodes, on bed

the lady’s ol’ raygun,

point right at my head.

’What was this intrusion?

why come in so rough?′

I better start talking ,

or my head’s shot off.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

So talking it through,

in common, we’ve got

we’re both screwd and dumped,

our ships are both shot,

but ’tween us we found

that my ship still could soar,

if we move stuff over,

from her ships main store.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

I will get my druthers,

her due when it’s done

I’ll send her to ride on,

right into the sun.

Now engines are roaring,

ship’s catching some speed,

the red lights are glaring,

and that’s all I need.

but she’s still there standing ,

her tentacles sway

I dont think I’ll eat her,

at least not today.

chorus:

driftin’ driftin’

oh, run out of air,

driftin’ driftin’

but I don’t despair,

we both get our druthers

our due when it’s done.

And I’ll send that witch flying

right into the sun.

my mind

is insatiable.

ablaze with

the intense heat

of infinite questions.

unable to cease,

lapping up information

with wild desire.

if I could only live forever,

the immortal wanderer.

moving along the circle of time

with fluidity.

nibbling on knowledge

here and there,

just as with food.

for the experience.

for the taste.

Just a taste

Every now and again,

finding that one rare dish,

so incredible that I must

Feast.

not a morsel left,

for the next wandering soul.

desire satiated.

on to the next experience,

to nibble and taste for eternity...

(Inspired by a word prompt from @JennShepherd: Immortal, Circle, Heat)

It’s not your fault,

but the irony is not lost on me.

It’s not your fault that I got a double dose of wanderlust

my family tree is full of pirates, sailors and wreckers on one side

drovers, vagabonds and swag men on the other.

there will be no tying me down.

but that’s just family stories you say, there’s no proof

true, there are no traces, they died on the high seas, in ditches or out on the moors.

The few who where honoured with a church yard burial were never nailed down with stone or cross. They traveled lightly, my forbears.

It’s not your fault that I cannot resist the pull of the horizon,

be it on a boat, train, plane, or on foot step by single step

the need to travel is only beaten by the need to breathe.

It’s not your fault.

Oh, but how I fester and seethe,

You send me photos of music festivals, bonfires on the beach and the latest from your road trip.

You, who chose safety, have freedom

I who chose to roam, find myself in lockdown.With only the government sanctioned exercise to sooth me.

It’s not your fault.

But the irony is not lost on me.

Two good strong arms

straight back

I would like a reasonable amount of padding but don’t object to a saggy seat.

well worn in and comfy is fine, but needs to look inviting by the fireside.

I‘m rather into leather at the moment, so a well tanned hide is good, not white however, it’s too hard to keep clean.

not worried about legs as I intend to replace them.

So if you are a vintage fireside chair looking for a forever home this retired upholster will tighten your webbing and reglue your joints, then we can spend our dotage cosy by the fire in the snug.

"Why isn't it okay to be lonely? she asked me.

"Well it is, I just don't like the feeling very much."

"Why isn't it okay to be lonely, Chloe?" she asks again. And it really feels like my brain doesn't know. It's just a feeling after all. How come this is so hard?

"I don't know. When I sit there I just think of all the people that are thriving right now while this is is so hard for me, and I wonder why I'm so broken. It feels compulsive, like I can't sit with it." The words kind of flow out of my mouth. I haven't really throught this far into this feeling before.

"Thriving? You think people are thriving right now? she asks in disbelief.

"Yeah, they're doing all these things, working from home, spending every day at home with the person they love, doing everything together. Stuff like that."

"Chloe, that doesn't sound like thriving to me. That sounds like desparation, surviving. Cramming as much in as you can in order not to feel. Would people be working from home if it wasn't a pandemic? People are scrambling right now, desparate to cling onto any sense of control that they can. Why won't you let yourself be lonely?"

***

If you're lonely too, don't worry. Being lonely doesn't have to be a bad thing.

Sometimes instead of getting in touch with my inner child I speak with my inner wise old woman.

I imagine myself draped in skin and wrinkles.

Missing teeth.

Sunspots.

Laugh lines as deep as canyons.

And I ask her “Is this okay? Am I going to be okay?”

And she always smiles at me. She closes her eyes and rubs her hands over her papery arms. I wonder what stories she has, what journeys I have yet to start, what people I have yet to meet, the secrets she keeps.

“You know, it happens so fast. Life. In the moment it feels so long. We feel so bad for eating a whole bag of chips, for sleeping with the wrong person, for saying no when you wanted to say yes, for holding onto grudges that don’t serve us and let us fully be ourselves. You have so much more. Oh, the stories you’ll make in life have nothing to do with what you’re currently sad about. There is so much more to living and there’s not enough time to do it all. Can you feel this? How short life is?”

I usually cry. My wise inner old woman always helps me feel freer and take in the bigger picture.

At some point if we’re lucky, we’re all going to old and we’re all going to realize how finite this is and how sooner we wish we could have lived in our bodies and let go of the shame, the blame, the guilt, the brokenness, the hurt.

I try to keep this perspective. Of course it slips through my fingers often and I’m right back to “Should I do this? Is this okay?” But she’s always there if I quiet down enough, whispering “It’s okay, you’re always good, you’re always loved. There’s so much more than this moment.”

I trust her. I love her. I try to surrender.

The only word that I can utter,

with the smallest strength that I can muster,

is a simple one word prayer,

A pool that’s deep but just one layer:

“Help”

And you know what it means,

You know my heart and all it’s seen,

You’ve been with me in darker places,

And you’ve shown yourself in strangers’ faces.

I won’t give up on faith in you,

So that includes my marriage, too.

What you have joined let none undo!

Protect us in the fire, too.

Bring us safely walking through,

Trusting with our eyes on you.

This prayers done much to settle my heart,

I’ve come such a long way from the start,

my pool doesn’t seem quite so deep,

And the mountain I’m climbing, not as steep.

So I guess my final prayer now,

before I stop this ranting on,

Is for a restful sleep somehow,

And hope to carry me to dawn.

Her voice was weeping violins, suffering.

Her wrist were plucked by the bow, agony.

Her heart was a clashing cymbal, despair.

Her skin was crumbled up manuscript.

An elegy of a broken goddess.

Chimes calling for her death, she finds no rest.

She was an orchestra of suffering.

No soul could bare her exiled saddness.

he is walking poetry

a voice like dewy dawn air

gleaming gold with new sunlight

a face like a symphony

a million notes lifting as one

a smile like a sparkler

exploding into tiny stars

eyes like a cup of coffee

dark and warm and soft and slow

he is walking poetry

an endless stream of the perfect words

i inhale his colours, his moonlight, his flower-wrapped spirit

and exhale him here, ink and paper, immortalized.

You know what I hate? Being named after a bunch of plastic bullshit. At least Ornament or Candycane sound cool. Tinsel is shitty. Oh, but I really feel bad for Mistletoe. Nah, not really. He gets dates easy.

But you know what’s worse than my name? Watchin’ the fuckin’ kids. I have to go creep around and watch some little kid’s every move. Let me tell you, some things you can never unsee.

“Tinsel! The next order of ornaments is in!” Ugh. Ornaments are the worst. Not only do we have to sort them according to some “theme”, we also have to cover the sixty foot tree with them. Since I’m the tallest elf (three feet five inches) I’m always stuck with tree duty. Candycane dumps a box of ornaments in my arms. “Big man needs these done before noon.” I groan inwardly. It’s eleven.

I dump the box on the floor of my workroom. The theme this year is Christmas animals.

Does this really weird platypus count? Probably. Santa’s weird like that. Who the Hell decided that a glass ball with a knife on it was an animal? I chucked that one in the “Maybe next year” box. Who knows? Santa might go on a crime show binge next year and decide that knives are “in”, like he did this year with Animal Planet. He has live reindeer! That can fly! Why does he need to watch a screen to know everything about them? Oh, right. Because he doesn’t give a shit about them. Taking care of them is an elf’s job.

I did it once. Trust me, it’s even worse than bathroom duty. Ugh, the smell. And the reindeer are bitches. They kick. And it hurts. A lot.

**unfinished**