i would like to learn the accordion/dischordant on the orient express

we're like ghost towns, all of us, nothing but trains full of spirits straining against the tide, the sea breeze which is almost too clear, too beautiful and far too wild to do anyone any measure of good. my mother says i am a little witch and a storm and she reads my tarot cards to me down the telephone whilst i sip tea and daydream. the only magic i could pretend to practice is wonderful and gratefulness, the bliss of the whimsical and the china tea cup, the handmade jewels and the cool light of dawn.

we're like ghost towns, we are haunted by our spectres and our lovers and our heart-drums, oil slick and dark at night, a velvet midnight. i see princes riding the ghost trains with broken faces bruised like sunsets and i see through the cakestand piled high with the tastes of old memories. there are ghouls and monsters packed onto chintz seats, cracked leather rubbing shoulders with ballet dancers and ringleaders, talking foxes and horses and the occasional black silhouette, exuding such sadness that i have to blow kisses to make it better.

the japanese cartoons and summer skies have left me reeling today, and later i will collect stamps to send to the souls who escaped the ghost trains, i will illustrate my murmurings with song and string and oil pastels. perhaps a little lipstick too.

the circus music stills pipes around my feet, feet which move ever closer to the colours of old maps.

cecily