shroomdiabolique
They have always loved one another cheek to cheek, their golden heads leaned together and conspiring smiles on young, smooth lips. Arm in arm they walk, hip to hip they stand.
One cannot love one's reflection though it is there, and if one should hate it, there it still remains.
When I was eighteen the NKVD came for us
And I was eighteen
and the floorboards had been in want of polishing
and Father, gone for two weeks
this is not madness
this is such fear
All that we do to each other.
If there had been anything more unnerving and disquieting, she thought that it was the tiny world inside each thin glass-and-plastic fairy-light on the christmas tree.
It had seemed like forever, like a lonely little corporate floor level in which someone, if they lived, would do so in pristine isolation for the rest of their days, fashionable and listless, entombed.
There is something fleeting in this moment, beloved.
The touch of your lips speaks of brevity, of
late evenings
and phrases unfinished.
(goodnight, ladies, goodnight, fair ladies, goodnight, goodnight)
There, here, is rough-hewn wood, polished
with Danish wax, with elbows
There is the warmth of strangers,
here are afghans over tired couches.
Snow falls, dirty, humane, outside, lingers
on cold windowsills.
There is a sort of art amongst the violence of it, the mud and the bodies; as if someone had decided one day to embrace surrealism whilst armed with all the misfortunes of a troubled past, perhaps too many Gothic novels, too much damned thinking-
Flanders in the springtime is not a holy place, nor remotely attractive in the year of 1917.
He sat down at the writing-desk one morning, and found, much to his dismay, that nothing came to mind.
The day was fine; the smooth sunlight slotted through the windowpanes onto clean floorboards, illuminating dust-motes in the air, was warm, but the page remained resolutely, stubbornly blank.
There is a gap between us now
like lovers across a river that becomes, gradually, a sea
as you bend from me and I from you
What, I wonder, is there to lose when in all truth there is comfort in separation
A productive quiet a welcome solitude
Accustomed to your absence love, like a sickness
accustomed to your silence when imagination renders you fonder, kinder
you are not present and yet I love you still
At boarding school, Jeremy used to stand with his back against the door of the wardrobe.
It had been a heavy, French armoire, the sort that seemed likely to fall over at any given moment- and so he and his roommate, a freckled boy with lean limbs and unruly hair and terrible Arithmetic, had been afraid that the thing would fall on them- crush them flat, or trap them within its yawning mouth of coatrack teeth- whenever they dared to get changed in the mornings or evenings.
And so one boy would always stand with their arms braced against the hewn-oak panels while the other rummaged.
A dark-blue affair, speckled
with white flowers
Rough cloth made smooth by wear, tired seams
stains hidden conveniently
nevertheless
Here we are
Here is the kitchen
The dust-motes flicker, illuminated
by dust
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writing since 2011 · 32 entries · 30 days shown up
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