i wanna make little films
but i dont have any stories

tribute to the one who cannot be named

"To succeed in the world, it is not enough to be stupid, you must also be well-mannered."
Voltaire

It’s much like raw fish with stoned eyes.

Words are hard to come by these days and when I find some squirting out my mouth I am grateful and I make do.
I want to have memories of cowdunged floors, or dunking in brown frog pools.

Last night I dreamed of glaucous grapes. They hung from my ears, and spewed out of my mouth. A stone played pupil and let off its purple down my cheek.
It is not the stone in my eye that I fear. It is the glaucous.

weave

shall i tell you the story sitting on my haunches at the
fireplace where i see the salamanders grow their limbs
again and again? or shall i tell you with raised
eyebrows, fingers knotting like hair in water? and will
you listen with enough attention as crinkled
grandmother skin?

i shall tell it to you clumped like earthwerm in mud.
you'd never know where i began or ended cause when
you're not looking i'll cut them in twos.

will you be hansel this time? i'll fatten you everyday so one day i shall eat you. gretel can go back home, i suppose the corn she dropped to mark the way are still there. does she look for orion's belt every night? if she finds the little puppy, tell her to beware. he gnaws your heart away.

of such and such

its my first post so i have decided to write a story!

such and such was a frog that lived in a hurricane. it found its playmates in little dormice that danced whenever the winds hit it high. five days and eight nights it spent with a red rose in its mouth waiting for a tango partner, only to receive an x-cheese pizza flopped on her head.

ok, i dont think i can write nice stories. cant find genders, names, plots or a clear narrative pattern.
Damn!

ok, i shall try again....



wildflowers grow on her
as she swirls her skirt less than she thinks
she's walking behind her and she knows he's looking
its the wind and the bellows
fingers and toes a-tingling
and she's doing the perfect pirouettes
on a black sheet of paper scratching lines onto her letter but he isn't looking
one swirl of the pink skirt and the sky looks down threatening to bloom daisies in her hair what with all that moisture
she counts on her fingertips and then the leaves in her hair
seven she says should be the right number
its lucky for me she says
he will look at me when i ...

i suppose i should go back to such and such....

old rhymes keep fallin' on my head

eeny meeny mieny moe!
catch the bad boy by his toe!
if he cries let him go!
eeny meeny mieny moe!