Skip to main content

Carmen (EARLY) in long blonde rows

Map of Prophecy/Banquet of Feasts 
A big orange ball in the hall. Be it small? One small ball in the hall is all. Right beside the wall. - Fryme thee auld Ballad auf Prenatal Timing
I'm as naked as a song while my mean old darling pulls at the vines in her hair, as always she'll leave them in the drawer. She mutters, singing as she picks at the odd bits of pin and other scrap left clinging to the gnarled wreck of her crabby string. I watch her from our bed and sing. I watch and think about long curved needles that mimic the angle of Carmen's spine arched as it is over her low breasts and the folded towel on the floor. Her broken knees argue for sleep on the hard wet wood. The dear to the other, This option will bring me sweet, She asks of me?
Over the music I tells her, It'll bring you sweets. Hard to find in the corner with your eyes covered sweet sweets, it'll bring you everything Carmen.
Make me think of this like I want to be there, open up your eyes too.
What we need is more magic. A bottle with some more of this magical grape juice, that's what we needs here. It's not a very heavy bottle. It feels satisfying, smooth cool glass and a paper label that smells a little bit like hot buttered spearmint. The table is rippled underneath it. When she picks up the bottle I can see that there's a ring and wonder if maybe it will stay that way. I wonder, should I do something about that? Then she turns around. There's nothing to be done about it I guess, Carmen looks back in astonishment as a small teal lizard climbs out of the center drawer, picking its way upward.
That's the drawer with the pencils right, the pencils and the bad rubber bands, Limits are renewed. I watch and watch as the lizard continues to climb. Laugh laugh laugh, Graceless Fernando, nobody uses those pencils anymore, nobody.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Who's Zoo?

Let's turn in early, in the corner where our bed is made, there are Pickles and there is pie and maybe soon there'll be some more, Write it down and say it loud, O fishing fable eating names, breathing then and breathing more, Let's trumpet trumpet, Let's blow on it, Then bury me under the door, Then bury me a house for my money and sing me a song when it's gone, Then sing it once again, This time sing it for Mary and then sing it again for the world, Our bed's in the water and barely turning, Burning like flames in the basement, Burning like eggs full of ape shit- This Long Old Song We all call out to Sister Susan, to Henry and the troll of trolls, Abe "the sparkle king." We call out to them lounging on their rock, beside the spring, "This is not yet a question of radical memberships or normalized narratives. These are not like your flowers at all. We have to renegotiate the roles of these entities much more better then they have been. They won…

Grown Awesome in the Deep End

After the fire, the stinging ember of its broken flame, the old house sits and it creaks a lot like a little bit of joy. It's the day after the water has melted apart, when there are sandcastles everywhere but not near enough to the sea. It's the day when I remember the night that everything nearly opened up. The night that I sat up in bed, both of my eyes were filled to their depth with an impossible panic. I couldn't feel the sheets anymore and I couldn't think of Elizabeth's name either. Instead I heard the deep and heavy trucks. The crackle of bull horns that slam into the indecent walls of brick and lumber like they're whiskey finding itself a good wife. I look off into space. Between us, I know my hand is sitting there. I look at the glowing door and I scream like I'm a hot little girl that's burning up from too much heat.
"It's all, touch me. It's touch me if you can because I'm being silent now," she says to me. I can see …

Your Fantastic Sex, it is Genderliscous!!!

Oh Alice, sweet Alice, down the well and in the low field across from the helper-bees. We'll face our frontier with a buzz. We'll cast our piddling stones in the wind and wait. Dream, Dream, Dream, "Cordial and regrettable things, stand solid, unflappable and gummed inside this wonky tide of glue." She's ankle deep in tired feet herself. Climbing from her hole, she's laid her potty mouth in the river by the road.

"Please, the victims aren't even gone yet, Gert! They hover around our ears. Sometimes they'll leave to go away but for now, they've stopped to listen to us groan. They're watching us when we slide under the nest of clouds and the silver weight that they bear. They're quiet below the simple round moon and they're quiet for us now too."

"Those are craven and nasty things. They're easily locked inside of my box or chucked under the bed. What, why me worry at all, is all that I have to say that."

"O&…