fairytales and regurgitation by capricordestin, literature
Literature
fairytales and regurgitation
your pacifistic smile makes my
outside-me
curl
into a similar shape, cynically
[morning moods]
"anything is possible,"
you whisper, "chickens
can fly, trees will outlive you
and bananas do not
grow towards the light-"
you stole the words
i used to lisp when you were
hopelessly
into painting realistic portraits
and you [such a tragedy]
only spoke to me in dead languages
well, my brain
refuses to reply, twisting
like tentacles of a baby-sized octopus
craving for food
so we'll fill ourselves
with literature, eat and eat
the crumbly
yellow-ish pages of
knowledge, stained with coffee
regurgitation
and again
it is noon a
even gravity
forgot me
yesterday
i floated
pulled faces
laughed at
disfigured
beards
& sung silly
christmas carols
in the burning
sun
because not
even gravity
could see
& i felt
me
the alchemist mingles and melts and mixes
yet you don't turn to gold; i know you are
already made of [e]motionless metal, indoors-
where cosy hearth-fires used to tickle skin of inside
intestines and intestines and cellularity, lobsterlike red
as are your brain wisps still- happy pink, they call it
but fish are to be eaten only, and you carelessly dance a duet
with the white unscrupulousness, back and forth-
till your lobsters of sense shrink and shrink and shrink
at last, you are gold
absorption-
you gave him nicknames and he gave you Kleenex;
one, instant drownage in that saltiness
out
of
your lacrimal glands
enmity-
it was sunday, so you despised the world,
its cross-shaped clouds
and those two lost Marias
[the only one you wanted
to know was mariah carey
but not more than vaguely]
amnesia-
the nitrogen particles miss you the most
remember how they cared for who you
were?
people write three-movement symphonies about you, now
We visited your kingdom by the sea today, because yesterday was too cold, and the day before that too windy; our scarfs were bound to be blown away by that fierceful wind, and then what would we do?
We were to evaluate every corner of your pentagonal nation, after we would have completed our blood-stained task, after you would have opened your dazzling doors for us. The day you let us into your deliciously reeking empire with platinum chairs and silk grass halms, was the day you signed your very own funeral.
We knocked on your door, perfectly engraved with those delicate wooden figures you had always adored. Not one person in your entire ki
live your kaleidoscopic vision,
as if you were blind tomorrow
for la lune and her sclerotic
white and-
she's your never-ender, a
knotted queue of cylinders
that has no glorious finale
none at all-
not one
in the train-train of her infinity
mirrors, mirrors you loved everyone so platonically
but [mostly] yourself, the
owl has feathers and wisdom,
so you wish to fly
and learn dictionaries by heartyou'll have daily staring contests all you want is the sound of eyes watching over you
must feel must
feelanything no one tells you how to dance
so you just stand there