Monday, 27 April 2009

Fox Fur

I do not know what to make of you and your broken, shaking hands. Your eyes make me cry. Your eyes make me alien. My tea needs sugar Mother. I jump in to cold, blue water, black beetles swim around and a shark’s fin hangs above my head in the farm. I wonder what secrets the fox fur stole used to know. It terrified me so. It used to hang in my wardrobe covered in white glossy paint where I used to lay down and push my bare feet down against the door to the floor, making it scream. The fox hanged itself along with a few of her other old, contaminated clothes probably from other husbands and sometimes, it would lean out and touch me. It smelt of old things, dead creepy things. Mother used to wear the animal a lot when she was younger; it had small, glass eyes that tinkered when your nail touched them and a tiny hinge on its mouth so that you could make it talk, and even though I’ve tried many a time, it never speaks. I now wear a black fox fur stole in the winter.


Twenty years. Ten years of dismembered memories.
I wonder who this woman is, this mask of wood and golden nails. One day I’ll remove this mask and find the wood decomposed, the nails rusted.

Perfection is obsolete. Your mask hides reality, reality that I will never know. I do not know who you are, who you were, who we are. I cannot find the words to write about you.

You are ambiguous, an amphibian, an unpolished topaz. I am pulverised by this latest thing.

Friday, 17 April 2009

A work in progress...

I am a wall of eyes.
Asleep on a mattress of
horse hair and needles,
you prod and poke your
penis nose.

Jealousy is liquid.
A dead ancient portrait of
the stone and the tree.
Tonight is enough,
curtains close.

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Chapter 3

Are Fairy Tales fantastically moralistic, promising an unconventional, potentially inappropriate and fantastic illusory lifestyle?