Thursday, July 28, 2011

At the Royal Tyrrell Museum

Something made me remember this old piece. At the Royal Tyrrell Museum from the Rose & Thorn, Summer, 2007: http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Summer_2007_page_2.html#At_the_Royal_Tyrrell_Museum

Friday, July 15, 2011

Forgot about this blog

I haven't used this in so long, I'd simply forgotten that I ever set this account up in the first place. Such is life. I'll take this as a sign that I ought to do something about that. So, in the spirit of nostalgia I'll post some work from the former edifice WRECKED ezine. These were published in May, 2007. I find them weak pieces written when I just started playing around with words again, but they have their own weird charm. Nostalgia, no doubt. Well, enjoy.

Gliese 581 c

we found your cold gem
wrapped around a ruby,
maroon splashes virgin earth,
hot.

we point and dream
make Magellan plans, while
Sleeping Beauty slumbers, waiting
for her prince.

we'll take you one day
strip your gold
plunder your diamonds
in self-satisfaction,
to keep young couples
honest.

***

Red Riding Hood

Where are you going little red
with your electric smile
and bright sapphire eyes, glinting
like a sharp pick that pricks the frost walls of
my heart? Didn't grandmother warn you
not to stray from the path,
into the dark woods of men, overgrown
with thorny vines that'll ensnare and bleed
sweet girls like you?

I'm trapped and enwrapped,
tied in fate to a story
I already know the ending to. I've crushed
the petals of past promises, the words dust
against palm lines that scar me;
I'll break you, too, girl, just
like fairytale lies of us --
but you'll believe them, bend,
snap.

I'll nibble a bit at your ears, play
the harp of your soul, my nimble fingers
teasing the gold strings of your hair,
to make melancholy music,
until I consume you,
and you make a new coat of me.

***

Little Girl Lost

She courts the dead, her beak buried
under page 21, massaging
the split spine with deft finger play,
and razor eyes cutting imaginary suitors
formed from farcical words
a hundred years old.

Love them and leave them,
she tosses another lie left,
upon the heap she's been collecting
all her life. No Mister to the right
to sweep her feet, just the janitor
pushing at the dust of a dry life
(he can't rant in English, but smiles anyways).
She doesn't even notice that.

Self-contained bubble, she floats
to the train station, mistaking
mercury for silver-linings, and
Metamorphosis for a map, lost
in a laconic life. But the distances
she travels each day never change,
no matter how often she measures it.

She dreams of freedom.

At night she weeps on her vanity,
unbuttoning her armour, revealing
a perfect portrait of loneliness and
counting the rings around her eyes
(one for each year of decline),
before leafing through her diary,
rustling in her sheets, and tossing
her comforter to the dead end of the bed.

All she's ever needed was with her all along;
a pin to prick the bubble.