sound of the squeaky shower head
yellow shag carpet on naked feet
faint pervasive smell of cocoa butter and garlic
errant blueberries the taste of white gold on my chin
hum of the turning refrigerator smooth cracked leather
sleeping barely waking grown restful from disuse
the telling crunch of a cherry tomato guessing wrong
things familiar churning mulling it all over was it fixed
given a tell smudges on the mirror of my childhood
nightly hoping for spiderbites sign of nightmare
marks of bitter reality an excuse to sweep away
remnants of the past on my windowsill frozen fixed
flushed dripping sweltering dans l'air climatisé
biking paved suburban circles alone mid-morning
martha.
home.
About Me
glowing
pre-hair cut.
moi-même
almost graduated! rose in hand.
the double-degree row.
my metro
clever grin.
dinner chez cheminals + mes parents
maéva, cutest bug.
streets of barcelona, cataluña
barcelona bark.
fountain, avignon.
tour eiffel. had to be done.
home
3 comments:
mr. sleepy sounds like this to me:
"the piano has been drinking
my neck tie is asleep
and the combo went back to New York
the juke box has to take a leak
and the carpet needs a hair cut
and the spot light looks like a prision break
cause the telephone is out of cigarettes
and the balcony's on the make
and the piano has been drinking
the piano has been drinking..."
Tom Waits
"she says howyougonnalikem
over medium or scrambled
anyways the only way
be careful not to gamble..."
kisses from the rain
From W.B. Yeats in his 1923 Nobel Lecture:
One felt an overmastering desire not to grow unhappy or embittered, not to lose all sense of the beauty of nature. A stare (our West of Ireland name for a starling) had built in a hole beside my window and I made these verses out of the feeling of the moment:
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and fies.
My wall is loosening, honey bees
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house is burned,
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
That is only the beginning but it runs on in the same mood. Presently a strange thing happened; I began to smell honey in places where honey could not be, at the end of a stone passage or at some windy turn of the road and it came always with certain thoughts. When I got back to Dublin I was with angry people, who argued over everything or were eager to know the exact facts. They were in the mood that makes realistic drama.
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