Lauren Herrera eavesdrops on fairies |
by Lauren Herrera |
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I am an analyst, Miss Mary-ann by name I am the Antichrist, I am free on Friday night What His Fairies Fear “Hey, how’s it going?” the reply, an indistinct noise-like retch, maybe Now you pluck the peach-coloured gel pen out from between the cushions (is it dearly departed? or merely discarded? did someone pick their nose with it, or use it for some other unmentionable purpose?) Quit being such a priss Pick up the damn pen and write: “I’m going back to where it never began and in the beginning was It’s all over now for you and your deranged cousins you promised it wouldn’t hurt the first time I may never return i’ve never felt this way about someone before But if I do, treat me kindly, kindly i ask if you want to come to mine next time Don’t tell me I’m a martyr, a hero just for one day Don’t shove shiny medals up my ass on the sweet-n-sour grass Don’t make me remember a thing you and me and yesterday and tomorrow And if next week, I’m dead oh god yes like that Move on, and live, and let, die.” now turn the page: “No. You don’t love me, not really. If I meant anything to you at all, I think you’d be pleased to let me come and go as I pleased. get over it say you’re sorry to see me go then get over it again all over the rainbow, so fucking high flying feeling, just like you’re being adored Spontaneity is the spice of fashion blue lights, dry ice, ambient trancey synth-based drone Fill up on music at funerals for friends of Dorothy Shut your eyeballs and think of sailors fighting but really dancing, in pairs I am an analyst, Miss Mary-ann by name I am the Antichrist, I am free on Friday night I am the Walrus.” this is true, most or none of it. have you ever gone up to hell on the hollow stair, or breathed or died in the dark, or been sixteen and wished for cheekbones or breathed, or turned tricks in snakeskin boots, or stared at the doorknob, or breathed or stood in the dock and sweated like a lover, or loved yourself too much or breathed in neon as it wafted from the page, the cold-steel block lettering in the land of dreams, paradise by the laptop light? 2 minutes, flat, is, IS what you want, to have and have not without Bogey but you liked Bacall’s hair so much. it’s none of it real, though, you do know that, right? Peering (In) not really feeling my best today well you look good as if beautification is as easy as sticking a doily and some flowers on top of a pile of horse shit this one is a real conversation piece he walks well back on his heels pelvis thrust forward shoulders back give him a story maybe Bowie’s gum-chewin’ gouster is he made of bendy straws or does he have that one type of scoliosis that I can’t remember the name of what a dog our stuffing-showing dream the festooned hermit crab and her pet gnome perch amongst the weeds and let them impinge upon each other and themselves Clock Watching Breakfast. Two minutes past, says she. Her name was Alice Gray and you married her. You tuck your fingers into your pocket. Tick. The staccato spoon in a pond of milky murk. Outside the window, the tradesmen are walking, Two by two. Chained eyeglasses, a plump maid attached to the other end. She makes too much noise when dusting the mantelpiece. Damn it woman, Coleridge goes after Chaucer. Doesn’t she know how a library ought to be arranged? Daft old thing is French, so it can’t be helped, you suppose. Tock. The carriage is waiting for you, sir. On the way out, you tuck an umbrella under your arm. The gate squeaks. * * * Morning passes without incident. He doesn’t care what you read, so you send a man out for Lippincott’s. How fine it would be to have a garden, Perhaps like the one in that new story of Mr. Wilde’s. Tea. There are foul yellow chrysanthemums on the table, Anemone on the drawing room curtains, Red columbine on the wallpaper. You might have had company in the afternoon, Only you simply could not work up the energy, And it’s begun to rain. What a curious thing: The men and horses seem like ghosts through the glass. Sigh. A garden would be a horrid bother, really. It wouldn’t stand up to weather like this, not to mention the mud. And the droplets clinging to spider-webs, Lace and crumpet crumbs… You ask Madame Blanchard to unlock the upstairs piano. Clouds of dust rise out of the staircase underfoot; Ring the bell again. * * * You could murder a coffee, you really could. Assaulted by a basket full of bones on the way to the carriage, You threw a shilling at it and ran for cover. The pungency of the bank drowned in stale leather and perfume. The paper advertises A Winter’s Tale at Drury Lane, Thursday night at seven. Why does she always want to go to the damn theatre? You keep your hand resting over your pocket, fiddling with the watch-chain. Another carriage passes, but you see no one in it. The driver, hunched over, gnaws a useless pipe. Yours whistles “Scarborough Fair.” * * * He’s just in time for tea. You pat your hair and smile softly. His moustache crinkles with his eyes, which are blue. He has marmalade with his tea, And you mention A Winter’s Tale at Drury Lane. He nods silently and remarks vaguely On how much more inflation there will be next quarter. The rain has stopped. How nice would it be to take a walk, Perhaps by one of the parks? He leafs through the Lippincott’s you left on the settee And tells you how melodramatic writers are these days. * * * The pavement is shining alongside Brompton Cemetery. A man and a woman move between the graves, Their colouring like ashes on eyelashes, the woman says. She pauses in front of a particular statue, Drawing the man’s coat-sleeve to a halt. How sad she is! Quite. Isn’t it beautiful? Very pastoral. It really is beginning to get gloomy again, dear. Time to go. But look, Edward. Look how she covers her face with her hands… Tableaux Intermezzo “These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air;” - Prospero, The Tempest (4.1.148-50) particle eidolons spotted by light angle for position under the bright bridge of souls. crimson dark filaments burst in out spit swallow then out-salomé Salomé. of Oblivion Some one sliced into the wall “hal le lou ya” peacock phosphorescent back head up gaze on Swiss cheese enigma why must the only loose tile in the entire ceiling be above my head? Frankie said—but how? phantasmagoria groove become one with the lava lamp go into the void and harvest the light first nostril to the left and straight on till— knowledge comes a breath release purple cows fall from the sky I learnt this mystic ritual from a shaman I met while cloistered in the bowels of the library, the final resting place for naughty books poison words filthy Eastern ways wish I could remember slipping through spaces as— O! quintessence of dust— the fuming chill of the eldritch floating Elegy for Ever After oh it’s really quite inevitable facts change story gets twisted ’round morality & taste tragedy & time the former made sweet damsel of the sea little daughter of the air crimson flowers blossomed in blue because she could not kill the thing she loved those stepsisters learned the hard way what to do if the shoe doesn’t fit no pain / no gain no more heel-toe time to dance macabre Cinderella marries prince plastic Hitchcock waltzes in beaks descend sisters lose sight of the goal so sorry now feathers ruffled pining for the fjords red polluted globe remained balanced in a hand as white as snow but that drag(on) queen painted weird sister (who walked like she had a metal rod up her) peel back celluloid orthochromatica begone Mrs. hag in burn-hot-red footwear—iron— dancing towards her death once Sleeping Beauty’s mother-in-law from hell upon a whim (as ogresses will) decided to make a meal of she whom the prince left home with the kids (time’s up) snakes toads vipers lizards tooth & claw like the Berlin Wall tore her down some say Rumpelstiltskin had a split personality weaving clever magicks defying laws of physics flouting conceits of etiquette but when they discovered his true identity, O he had to put his foot right down went thru the floor with rage he did left him pulling his own leg really tore himself apart over the whole incident poor old wolf house-wrecker, sure, but nice bloke did what carnivores do (as a youth, used to weep in butcher shops) but down the chimney hole & oh dear death boils at 212°F prey eats predator swine dines in decadence the foxy man sprang forth-wards like Beatrix Potter chased down dreams of sugar & spice woe to ambulatory baked goods —bleed strawb’rry jam if he could— lacer / mastic / ingurgit (ate) the icing on the cake speaking still as quarter half three-quarters then slobber fang death lay ahead for her pretty little thing faith too much in wickedness deep in the belly of the beast she patiently awaits the carving out it never comes & so strapping on that girlish pluck she accepts her grim(m) fate |
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