Linguistic cartwheels in the stylings of a rant, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
I am a 20 year old female writer residing in Central New Jersey. My influences include the great Dave Barry, Neil Gaiman, George Carlin, and the two greatest editors in the world, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. My webpage can be found at www.homestead.com/foxfyresden and I can be reached at Foxfyre33@aol.com. Happy reading!
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
Sunday, May 22, 2005
(Notes) on a napkin, (like) a stain from my mouth,These (ink) smears from my fingertips - Ruin this former blank white (canvas) space;I crumple up my leavings (work) And leave them to slowly drown in my saucerWeakly soaking up my tea (fuel) as if to gainA (literal) life of their very own.
With a sigh, I silently admonish, "You wouldn't last very long out there."
7 am February
You are the warm expectance of french toast on a cold november morningThe rich indulgence of buttered cinnamon toastdipped in milky teaThat singular feeling of a laden breakfast tableon a day-off morningwhen I need no more sleep - The comfort of this worn robeand well-loved slippers,You, my love, are everything.
Honey
Honey-sweet, you call me.Honey.Sweetness dripping from your stamen lipsHot like summer, like JulyMelting down across your Your sticky pistil tongueAnd binding me to youIn translucent amber threads;A loving spider-bee bondage of wordsThat taste so sugary sinfulHoney.
I love it when you look at meAs if I were a spotless canvasAs if you had all the paint on earthAs if I were at the mercies of your whimsAs if you had all the time in the world.
Rotini
Effervescent crystal lava, tumbling captives merrilyTo crash against stainless hulls of steelThe creamy yellow flanks of starchy serpentsLonging to be eaten, twirling in semolina celebrationVain little leaps atop tiny boiling bubblesFalling just short of the Marinara nirvanasimmering coaxingly beside.
Ever After
A chapter after the final pageBlind nightengale sits in a gilded cageA dun colored bird and its warbling dirgeThat shows no cease or age
A chapter after the final phraseAt a tower window, the maiden staysHer hair is shorn, her eyes are worn,And cannot count the days
A chapter after the final wordHis charger's bells no longer heardThe knight rides wearyWith rheumed eyes blearyHis gallant youth all blurred
A chapter after the final verb,An enchanted cauldron moulds, unstirredThe old witch eyeingHer herbs all dyingIn birth-soil all interred.
Eight eyes turning, a painful yearningAs the endless night howls and criesSharpened stars glisten;And celestially listen With a death-rattled silence of sighs -
The book split, openAll loss of hope, thenAnd begins the hellish whineThe imp-child poutingTrembling lips mouthingOh mother! Please read it -
One. More.Time.
Janus - if you look both ways, can you, just once,Look the other way?Call off these wyrd little girlsAnd tell them to stop playing with string(they're liable to hang themselves)
The Ballad of Lactose Intolerance
My stomach is expanding, demanding now of meCessation of consumption of this tiny slice of brie!Barred from taste, I'm longing for a teacup filled with creamO what a waste that ice cream is a mere and distant dream!
Milkshakes, horrid mistakes, As their violent names impliedOh, monster that is munster, what you wreak on my insides!Forgive me, tummy, for this lucious yogurt-laden sinFor I know it's not as pleasant coming out as going in!
Sometimes, I think that I am endingThat I will explode in a single heated momentThat fire will stream from every expressive part of meAnd stars will die on my tongue;The corners of my eyes.I know the truth is nothing;Like ice, pulseless and deadlySometimes, I think that when I'm endingI will simply grow colderAnd very,veryquiet.
(Open scene: Fox is walking down a street in the rain. We do not see her face)
VO: I never understood the relationship people keep with the rain. Water is going to come from the sky,ineviatably. So why buy these prohibitively expansive boots, these outrageously expensive tins and jars and bottles of makeup and hair gels and god knows what else when it's all going to wash off, sooner or later?
(Camera pan to shot of a young overly-made up blonde in UGG lookalike boots,with running mascara, drenched hair, trying in vain to fold her umbrella back convex)
VO: We buy these million-dollar cellular phones, pdas, laptops, what have you; and a little water from the sky reduces us to the most basic of human communication, out of fear they'll get wet.
(UGG girl yells to a friend's car cruising slowly, obviously looking for her. They yell back, they meet up.)
VO: I have a running theory that water is the great equalizer. We all grow in it - and we're only borrowing the water we have at any given time. We're living vessels of water - so scared of a substance that makes up the majority of our body that we seal our own tombs against it.
(Opening theme plays; stylistic and sad-jazz rendition of "rain, rain go away".)
BALSAMIC CHICKEN(GOD’S GIFT TO MORTAL CUISINE)
Balsamic Chicken is the poultry version of Ambrosia – that is to say, in the mythological sense, translating as “Food of the Gods”.If you do not enjoy it, obviously you are a communist.
It features Balsamic Vinegar, Mushrooms, and Chicken in a sauce served over egg noodles, which are also heavily suspected of causing immortality and greatness to all who consume them.. Additionally, this recipe has garlic, onions, pepper, and whatever else is in easy reach on the low shelves of the spice cabinet/fridge.
1.) Get all the icky stuff off the chicken. If you didn’t Start with boneless/skinless, well, then, obviously you have a stronger stomach than I. If you’re doing it right, you should start with about 2 pounds of chicken and end up with roughly half a teaspoon of “chicken”, and 1.98 lbs of “icky”
2.) Pound the living…you know what…out of the chicken with one of those neat little metal mallet thingies.
3.) Realize you need flour. Wash chickeny stuff off hands and get down flour. Stand in kitchen staring blankly at various containers and figuring out how to do this with the least mess. Give up. Coat chicken with flour. If done properly, kitchen should look like a 1970’s party gone a little overboard by the time you are done with the flour.
4.) Realize you don’t have any oil OR Balsamic Vinegar, both of which are sort of crucial. Dig through cabinets, sigh with relief once a plastic bottle of Balsamic Vinaigrette is unearthed. Tactfully ignore the “best by” date. Pour half of it into a saucepan over high heat.
5.) Curse. Turn down heat. Put burn cream on various afflicted portions of oil-burned hands.
6.) Throw the chicken, half a pound of sliced portobella mushrooms and half a diced onion in the sizzling mess. If you are doing this correctly, both the oven hood fan AND the window should be open, out of necessity. When the whole thing turns kind of brownish, put a can of chicken broth in there. Let the thing bubble while you open the noodle bag from the wrong end.
7.) Curse again. Sweep up noodles. Realize you have no more egg noodles. Spend a long moment contemplating the 30 second rule. Use a conglomeration of random elbow, spiral, and lasagna macaroni leftovers from half-empty boxes. Sigh tiredly.
8.) Everything is done. Pour the sauce and chicken over the noodles and serve artfully on mismatched plates after sweeping everything that was on the table into a box.
9.) Stare icily at spouse until he nervously extols the godlike virtues of your cooking, while choking on an overdone mushroom.
The waves crest high on foreign shoresMy father's foot has found;Those ocean tides that pull and roarTo the gentle waves of sounds - To rivers tumbling rapid whiteAnd freezing oceans too
If I should come to your front door;There is no cause for worry - I've a million things to doAnd I'm in an awful hurry.
If I ask you for a dozen things,Not a one of which you've heardAnd rush you when you try to lookPlease, do not be preturbed.
If I roll my eyes when you replyPolitely, in an even toneAbout things you know much more than II've a right to bitch and moan.
I've been in here five minutes nowAnd still I do not see"That" book on scottish wedding vowsFrom nineteen fifty three.
The cover's blue, the author's blackIt's got a dog upon the coverWhat other info do you lack?I'll pester whilst I hover.
When you find it, hours afterI am hardly in your debtI could have found it so much fasterAnd it's cheaper on the net.
And then I'll leave, having delvedInto eighty different sectionsAnd leave you all my books to shelveHaving spurned all my selections
A coffee spill on my way outI'll tactfully ignore,My cell is ringing, my kid is screamingAnd you have to clean the floor.
Gritty, bright - dusty trumpets and wrought-iron quarters;O city who hides her gardens, verdant and lushBehind bricks and metal scrolling,Debutante hiding her charms behind mardi-gras finery -Coy and sultry as an August night.Music and the Mississippi swirl in your wakeGathering lovers to your parti-colored breastAnd laughing till your white teeth show.Dance til dawn, silky shoes in tatters Gris-gris beneath the pillow, cross above the bedYou're wearing masks even as you sleep.
Double-edged sword of memoryUnsheathing to remind, in minor cuts-Of salted wounds bearing The way a former lover used to laughOr slashingSome failure that darkened years,
Would I you had remained unused,That your lefthand blade should rustAnd leave my scars to heal.
There is an island in uncharted watersThat is robustly peopled with thoseWhom I have once cared for-They while away the hours, never a moment olderThough years come and go;They speak only of my beauty,My wit and wisdom - My amazing lover's prowessAnd how terribly stupid they were to give me up.Once a day, as one,They all turn towards the eastTo stare longingly at the seaAnd wait for me to return.
Mall. Rude, slow, loud woman, massive stroller. Huge back-up. Lunatic produces cattle prod, runs. Cheers. No, officer,I'm afraid we all saw nothing.
The silky sift of ashes in a fire
*The Fisherman's Wife*
She caught his elbow at the door,and asked him where he goesHe murmured softly at the floorIn his sailor's clothes
I'm off - to sea, to sea, my loveTo the wide and briny deep, But dunnae fear the sea my loveFor this promise I will keepFor fresh as pearls your youthful skinand yellow as gold your hairI will come back home to youAs fast as you are fair
Where will you be when my body creaksLike weathered ships on fraying linesWhen all the treasures that you seekAre fetched away by time?When these sapphire eyes are cloudedAnd this skin worn dull by brineWhen the gold by grey is shroudedWill you still be mine?
Caught in her like spiderwebs,This memory wound like skeins of silkJeweled with icy drops of glassy-edged starsOn the bottom of dark and silent seas
I breathe the universe at her seashell earI would give you stars, and moons,The swirling voided cosmos and furious novasAnd the thousand things I promisedWhen I spoke with other voices - Sugared rose petals strewn at your feetAs they tread their butterfly stepsAcross this rubied heart.
But this a murmured dream,Hymns and mantras to your alabaster gloryWhich I know and still do not, shall never;Twin-beat of my own restless heartBeating with the pulses of distant suns,Of sliding mercurial silver of our veins - I am making love to myself;Sheaves of barley left aside, green robe slid awayMy heart is pierced, my flesh run throughThis rarest of orchids caged in delicate bars,I dare not breathe upon it!
Siren who breathed life beside me in the cosmos - Born into this void holding hands,Torn asunder by mortal coils,Spiraling ever back, and ever backInto a nameless place of our ownI know you hear these murmursAnd understand the sleeping language of my tongueThese runic words, mystic syllablesA thousand words for beauty,And all sound like our name.
A sister's kiss upon the brow I see reflected in celestial mirrorWith the sight cradled in my arm;Let us braid affections into our hair,And know solitude as a wish only.
The detective winced at the sight under the tarp. Mangled body, suffocated by wrinkled clothes, butchered. Nearby, being handcuffed, a clerk clutched a bloody hanger.
Charon as a Taxi Driver.
Sugar instead of salt for a ritual - witch found dead?
Arthurian Myth set in New jersey.
Poems with titles corresponding to the major arcana?
5:39 PM
|
|
| |
|
|
|
