Unhand me, Villanelle!

Two Birds

familialdiscontent — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 04:13:04 +0000

As I began my day
I went into the world
and I was spoken to,
a voice in my left ear,
and I was told to turn
as I set my foot
on the blacktop river
that would take me to
the place; the place,
I am told in my left ear,
is perfectly lined for me:
fresh newspaper,
fresh water;
but my left ear burns
and my throat is always dry
and today there is a tugging
at my earlobe,
so I turn
and I see trees reflected
in the black water,
and the water seems to flow
downhill now,
and I—like a Pooh stick
drift from one side
of a stone bridge to the other,
and when I look up,
squint past the blinding sun
which was not here yesterday,
I see that no one is watching.

Fox

familialdiscontent — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 00:10:18 +0000

It doesn’t matter how long she’s hidden
or what name is given to the stone
by the spirit living within,
and the prince’s wounds healed—
she served three emperors this way
and each time the kingdom forgot.

Her voice clouds the night air
like splinters of glass
but he doesn’t turn his back.
Each word pierces his face,
draws water from under his fingernails.

He suffers every fragment
because he knows—
he was there when the clouds boiled
from stillness into fury;
he saw candles sputter and die.

He knows it was not the lightning,
It was her—it was
ten thousand chrysanthemums
shattered by the hot spring wind
that stirred in her skin,
and it was the sun in her heart,
the moon in her face.

Gustav Kilmt vs Dracula

familialdiscontent — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 02:36:17 +0000

With a hand at her throat
she closes her eyes,

golden vines stream from her feet
and she lifts,

peeled away from memory
inch by inch,

and she dreams of a gate
which reads “Be bold, be bold;”

can no longer hold
such a thing as memory,
which now rhymes with dream;

A dream of a feathered tail,
and a dream of a golden blanket

Spineless

familialdiscontent — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 08:51:29 +0000

I’m left to wonder, sitting by the Swan—
our river, on her quiet, curving neck
and looking south towards her ancient back—
I wonder how these places have the heart
to tolerate the engine’s drone, the waves
on windless days, the hammering that drowns
the little laughter of a stream. I know
that nature has the teeth, so why not bite?

Translucence twitches in the sand—a prawn
left out of water by the tide. I catch
it with a stick and send it home. Perhaps
the crime is punishment enough, while those
that care to watch for spineless refugees
enjoy the lichens bleaching in the sun.

Last Street Rose

familialdiscontent — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 03:26:20 +0000

Kookaburra perches
on an iron flower; decrepit
red steel bursting
the buttons of its white coat.

That flower’s very old,
a plant that once grew
virulent here,
pressed steel petals
radiated from every
artificial sun
on every street.

This must be the last of a breed
that whispered to a boy,
told him where he was.

Man perches on fresh
red clay, bricks
tapered to a modern corner.
He must be a long way from home,
must be from the North,
somewhere far, under
the winter solstice sun.

He’d not be the same there,
brighter under the sun,
would not have his head in his knees.

Like a kookaburra,
he’d laugh at the door to a house
and sit with the whispering lamps
that tell him where he is,
tell him he belongs.

17

familialdiscontent — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 03:59:16 +0000

The Moon is haloed, seven coloured rings
that hang on heaven’s hatstand, snagged on hooks
suspended in the sky; and everything
is draped in linen sheets like ghostly books
forgotten on a ghostly bed and made
by careless hands. They say that sheets when dried
by full moonlight will glow their whitest shade,
reflected silver echoed in their sides.

The slightest breeze will push the blanket south
and bring the tree line sharply into view.
Then, clouds within my lungs escape my mouth
like shades, their icy fingers pushing through
my chest, reminding me of other such
cold nights, your warmth, the fire in your touch.

Persistence

familialdiscontent — Tue, 24 May 2011 08:16:03 +0000

Tell a man that the roof of his house is empty,
He will pray louder;

Tell him that his air is water,
He will listen for the twittering of fish;

Tell him that his sea is a desert,
He will show you how to drink;

Tell him that the trees have no mouths,
He will sing you their songs;

Prove that his religion is false
and you have proven his faith;

Show him his foolishness,
He will tell you about love.

Wetlands

familialdiscontent — Tue, 10 May 2011 05:42:42 +0000

The gap between my molars
must be a cozy cottage;
the worst house on the best street:

not much to look at, but
warm,
safe,
plenty to eat and drink.

Painful as it is,
it’s comforting to know
that there’s something
alive in us all.

SLOC

familialdiscontent — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 04:56:17 +0000

It’s much like the the sprawling ruin
with the endless staircase:

every arcane cold grey block
icy and smooth under panicked feet;

it carries waves of orange fire deep within,
but somehow gutted and turned around:

licks of flame pierce the eye
after the break and the crash.

Much like that, and much like the terror
in sleep; something huge and green

always two stone steps behind
or two steps above

and you left both hot and cold
like an inauthentic dish

Authentically turned inside out
like a bowl of fried ice cream.

ADSR

familialdiscontent — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 03:35:54 +0000

enters in a gust of
fresh pine cool
and a sour mash haze;
latched on
trash bragging angle
reaches in skin deep
chasing the take;
not suave
too raw

ejected
spreading on paved shapes;
wakes
inflates
to explore

on your horse
keep on truckin’
but remember:
time passes, Slick.