the pink caravan trails on my ceiling.
the otter burrows deep down into my jaw.
with rattles they come dancing with screaming cats on leashes.
the little angel climbs up my wall, he would have been sweet if it wasn’t for his crab claws.
somewhere a ball is bouncing non-stop.
i am only a speck of dust, yet this dust comes from the stars.
the chandelier drips like a stalactite from the ceiling. This house is no longer my home.
i cannot focus, the pots and pans keep giggling in a metal grinding rhetoric.
maybe the pot is fucking the pan. Shut up already!
my hallway is a slippery slope in which you gently slide into an abyss of pillows and feathers.
swallowed by this pillow I drowned in feathers and mites. Sinking.
the bugs are crying, crying, they try to tell me something but their throats are too small.
the mortar in between the bricks start to grow into tumors and callus.
the crying bugs are now in the far distance like a song by an Arab in the desert begging for redemption from God.
in this desert there is no forgiveness only a mirage of playing children in pink dresses.
the camel came scurrying by, his humps the perfect chopstick holder.
it is so uncomfortable, it does not fit the air and space does not belong. Like a violin dueling with a bag of potato chips.
a Gabbeh rug is slowly crawling through the forest.
my arms are made of lead, two metal snakes just dangling.
i ask the rug “Where are you going’ He says “Don’t you know that there is a war?”
that is when I started to run, the leaves got thicker and deeper until I had to swim my way out through autumn.
i was wearing a tight black leather cat-suit until I realize it is made out of licorice. I have already eaten the arms.
can to much licorice kill you? I have started to lick my eyes.
the secedes whine like sewing machines in the trees, I think they are making ‘coullottes‘
i met a brown recluse the other day, I do not think he was particularly happy with me.
he told me if it was not for the high level of plastic in my blood he would have bitten me.
i ask the rug “How do you survive out here”
he says ”Mushrooms”
two shadows live in my suitcase, they do not like to travel by air.
the pink caravan trails on my ceiling.
~June 2008
