the dry grass that pulls you under.
During Northern Annie when the mouth is choked with Sadness, the epidermal skein begins to contract and swell taking up the eternal pressure the way tea Kettles make artificial cloud frusc for the scared wrinkles of Mother Love.
You see, the smell of dry grass even in the winter was enough to pull me under. When the fog had rolled in, when I had dropped to my knees and crawled along the frozen shore line toward the reeds where the sand dissipates and the grasses grow, I came across a grassy hollow in the ground the size and shape of a coffin. I lay there for quite some time hoping Gull Boy would not notice the frusc and burble rising from beneath the bunting of skein between by shoulder blades where the nubs had been cauterized with dying leaves. I buried my face into grass and wept downward until the black plum sky sighed.
Inside the corrosive pipes the dream of Novia Scotia began to bloom the way it did when we first arrived. The sun on my back fell asleep and the bee that landed on my cheek crawled to the corner of my mouth before flying off to the apple tree out back.
When we first pulled up to the house we all sat in the car and stared at it. The father, Turner Black, blew a plume and spit something small and dry. Aint she a beauty. He said. We filed out. The house was weathered Bee hive gray, crooked and whispering. It over looked the Bay of Fundy which you could see through the holes in the roof if you stood on the second floor where I had fallen through up to the waist. The mother was down below in the kitchen reading the decrees and the laws she found by the water pump. The cigarette fell from her mouth when she looked up and she said, Oh God. But he didn't answer and the scrapes of Captain red running up my thighs turned to rusty tree bark.
The grass that summer was up to my hips and I would sit down and disappear into an apiary of yellow and buzz. Once a Humming bird came and stopped in front of my face to sing me braille song intimations of Wanker Doodles and Hate Boy, and his sister, Jenny Malone. It was Jenny who would introduce me to Lily of the high seas. You see, Lily was running blue berries out of the Bay in those days. She would set up a faux light house and lure the ships too close to the shore. They could never beat the receding tides and the fingers of muck. Caught they would lie there like beached whales. She would then sneak aboard, kill the crew and commandeer the ship, selling the juice and frusc from the dying sailors to the wood folk for rare gems moss and blueberries that she carried to Wellfleet and Marblehead.
You may remember Marblehead: Do not forget the Six Cocks out front: Cyrus, Conan, Matt, shaggy, Ray & Monk. The Lazy Romantic too, who was playing the Ukulele in the Shanty Mug.
He was the one who taught you rituals of dining. That it was better to fork your companion than the steak in front of you which is why Chinese Emperors band the use of the fork and demanded the implementation of chop sticks. Thus explaining the massive polyp or burgeoning populace known as Plooping in the eras between the Frond and what the Ben Marcus would call, "the Age."
The new laws are designed to gradually incorporate the fork back into the culture thus eliminating the need to kill second born children between ages of skein pulp and one.
In the final version where the bush is not consumed these directions will be cut and burned on a pier off Lake Michigan.
During Northern Annie when the mouth is choked with Sadness, the epidermal skein begins to contract and swell taking up the eternal pressure the way tea Kettles make artificial cloud frusc for the scared wrinkles of Mother Love.
You see, the smell of dry grass even in the winter was enough to pull me under. When the fog had rolled in, when I had dropped to my knees and crawled along the frozen shore line toward the reeds where the sand dissipates and the grasses grow, I came across a grassy hollow in the ground the size and shape of a coffin. I lay there for quite some time hoping Gull Boy would not notice the frusc and burble rising from beneath the bunting of skein between by shoulder blades where the nubs had been cauterized with dying leaves. I buried my face into grass and wept downward until the black plum sky sighed.
Inside the corrosive pipes the dream of Novia Scotia began to bloom the way it did when we first arrived. The sun on my back fell asleep and the bee that landed on my cheek crawled to the corner of my mouth before flying off to the apple tree out back.
When we first pulled up to the house we all sat in the car and stared at it. The father, Turner Black, blew a plume and spit something small and dry. Aint she a beauty. He said. We filed out. The house was weathered Bee hive gray, crooked and whispering. It over looked the Bay of Fundy which you could see through the holes in the roof if you stood on the second floor where I had fallen through up to the waist. The mother was down below in the kitchen reading the decrees and the laws she found by the water pump. The cigarette fell from her mouth when she looked up and she said, Oh God. But he didn't answer and the scrapes of Captain red running up my thighs turned to rusty tree bark.
The grass that summer was up to my hips and I would sit down and disappear into an apiary of yellow and buzz. Once a Humming bird came and stopped in front of my face to sing me braille song intimations of Wanker Doodles and Hate Boy, and his sister, Jenny Malone. It was Jenny who would introduce me to Lily of the high seas. You see, Lily was running blue berries out of the Bay in those days. She would set up a faux light house and lure the ships too close to the shore. They could never beat the receding tides and the fingers of muck. Caught they would lie there like beached whales. She would then sneak aboard, kill the crew and commandeer the ship, selling the juice and frusc from the dying sailors to the wood folk for rare gems moss and blueberries that she carried to Wellfleet and Marblehead.
You may remember Marblehead: Do not forget the Six Cocks out front: Cyrus, Conan, Matt, shaggy, Ray & Monk. The Lazy Romantic too, who was playing the Ukulele in the Shanty Mug.
He was the one who taught you rituals of dining. That it was better to fork your companion than the steak in front of you which is why Chinese Emperors band the use of the fork and demanded the implementation of chop sticks. Thus explaining the massive polyp or burgeoning populace known as Plooping in the eras between the Frond and what the Ben Marcus would call, "the Age."
The new laws are designed to gradually incorporate the fork back into the culture thus eliminating the need to kill second born children between ages of skein pulp and one.
In the final version where the bush is not consumed these directions will be cut and burned on a pier off Lake Michigan.