A Mouse's House and I Hate Italy

These two pieces were published at Danse Macabre du Jour on April 19, 2011.

A Mouse's House

Outside, the rollicking pale waste,
Shadings of black and white clouds,
Softly waves over the sky.

The balloon floats, waiting for its fall.
Chiaroscuro textures form gently
Across the smooth curve.

A couch lies, lost, sitting, waiting.
It’s left for taking at no cost,
Perched over the curb until…

Leaping, the cat moves slowly,
As if suspended in time,
Through the vacant glass.

A drip, dripping,
Echoes through the house
Clearly, with resonance.

A breathless impression of sound
Comes heaped in a jacket pile
With stillness from the ears poking out.

That gentle sobbing sigh,
Nearly lost in ambient noise,
Hides, one with rooms and buoys.

All is betrayed from order:
Over, under, wrinkled, torn,
Scattered, barely worn.

Fool! Brushed the drooping curl,
Peaceful in parallel slits,
Now, rhythmic venting winds.

I Hate Italy

I hate Italy; Italy hates me. It’s as if I’m a returning Etruscan King; the land itself rises against me. Heat and humidity are sent to dull my wits as I come to Milan. In Venice, whilst I plot its demise, the ancient winding roads conspire to confound and irritate my companions and I. We are but three wise men following a star to our destination; why are we dealt with so harshly? Is this not the home of the faith? Is every new pilgrimage such a threat? I feel fortunate that I did not leave without some spoil, or else all would be in vain. I gladly walk from this place in my new boots of Spanish (an aesthetic adjustment to the truth, they’re actually Italian) leather.

Clear

This piece was published in the Summer 2009 issue of Tinfoil Dresses.

Clear

I have already been thinking about you thoroughly; about marble and of jade. It is becoming quickly the something I must say that it is the girl rushing through the woods and houses along the way who holds the heart for singing that ignites salacious remonstrances, or is it the other way. Her inborne dualist primacy, feral or severe, is reflected in me right here; so by virtue of wishing through another upon oneself but withal still intact - I want her to be made of porcelaine. In Pan's reedy whistle she wanders merrily, her green, green cloak a shoutback of his verdant melody. It is the shoulder that I wish to lay my hand upon. "So let me guide you," and thus I stood beguided. For I deniably stand for all that is good. While shaking off the grime, I was beckoning you in, though may I not enjoin you overzealously. But when you're through my door the knockings are louder ever more. You didn't walk this way only for yourself; I was there right with you in previous foreknowledge of the moutains and crystal lakes which praise my kind of day. Marf is a clean carpet and sweat sock footed feet. Chocolate. A Link fighting nobly to the console between our controllers' cord's end things. Candy. You and me and disney. Lollipops. The one thing I gave that I can never take away. I have abandoned everyone. I would come, I would come to visit you. My marf is your diamonds and cocaine. Is a relationship now contained in so few days, when all available recollections reflect a moribund instant of joy or two? She wants to be bone and flesh! Could the ikons love bone and flesh? When a wooded fir is trying to be an art print littered table, perhaps along the way. Hallowed be thy name; I wish but fear I'm failing to preserve thy sanctity. But that art print littered table may not have been what the fir had meant, it seems, it's strivings to achieve. So my mundanity breeds your insanity, I would still take those cut out pills with you another day. It wasn't even my affectations of nobility but my vectorised lucidity which prevented me. I wanted, oh, I wanted; please don't take away. Give me a second chance to rectifie today. Am I to keep myself from ever opening my abdomen to someone else, my entrails spilling out only onto the page where their blemishes are not shared to understanding. This next silence may even be too much for me. I forget who I'm to be writing about: a porcelain girl, or me. You seem to want to be Nastassya Filippovna, while I want to be Myshkin with a different wakeful ending. You said, "Link Absolves Zelda," which was a wonderfully beautiful and insightful thing.