You Must Be Lolita
Andi Zeneli ©You must be LolitaProject Room 363 Wood gangstersNow the squirrel of sunset is on the trolley. Date number one... We got a product a forest' has got to have. Even better is that we got a product woods aren't allowed to have. They might as well outlaw swimming The sun is on holiday it wants a jump it will pay the price for it. How about the Newton's law? The law? Fireworks are the law Stop them for a time, well light a cigarette before you show your lips And if you separate us
Content
Andi Zeneli ©
You must be Lolita
Project Room 363 Wood gangsters
Now the squirrel of sunset is on the trolley. Date number one... We got a product a forest' has got to have. Even better is that we got a product woods aren't allowed to have. They might as well outlaw swimming The sun is on holiday it wants a jump it will pay the price for it. How about the Newton's law? The law? Fireworks are the law Stop them for a time, well light a cigarette before you show your lips And if you separate us from earth step from the abyss! Are you so full of colours you thought I'm a thorn I mean this tail isn't a leaf I'm going to kick it out of the oak right now Go and find your squirrel nutcracker with a badge, with all due deference to hazels! Now, as wood bosses, you'll each be responsible for taking bee orders and collecting honey from your restaurants, hotels, what have you. The sunset will be like the bank robbery never happened but for one thing... expectations this night will increase twofold.
Project Room 364
Small kiss ...small kiss as a micrometer majestic chorus junta protein of the drink on turpentine the magnet handle of the sword its rush towards the arches above your hair wedged between foxes racing over the Macaw Bird Bridge small kiss guide of wet fingers fish nails adorned with the meat of direction the tallow of tears the drum of your cheeks clothesline hangers between solstice and equinox Traumatized is a girl After a crow took her ring for a chestnut Things couldn't move further I couldn't help it either Since the loss hurt my jeweller Effects of the theft were like no other bird petty crime is out of my control Cause the ability of this life to bind a ring in strong finger Is weak enough such that love persists then out the mouth slithers As is recorded by the mirror the death breathalyser small kiss invisible from the studio room the common bird liaison or from the guitar near the window or far from the drum which has therefore remained silently cold...
Project Room 365 The moon-walker I had an interview with a sleepwalker a few nights ago He claimed to have seen much of sunflowers than cotton fields in his lifetime He was asking for the corn field nearby Should the owner turn it into a sunlight farm The more room for his giant client That's how much energy is demanding from crazy rivers and hydro addicts flooding the streets with tears. I had a sleepwalker banned from this city the order was reviewed by stray dogs who supervised the exile Which brings me to a few personnel changes You all remember... Cerberus, the three-headed hound Welcome back, puppy! Welcome home! Better known than anywhere else in the world. Good to see you awake! Gave them, sleepwalkers hell, I heard. Sure did. It did. And now that it has made the city safe for sleeping it is back to lend us a paw too! ...I smuggled on the other side a sleepwalker
drowsy and tangled together We drifted for months and woke With the bitter taste of algae on our lips Eyelids all sore toes sticky longing for shoes the buzz of chains Lowering an anchor down the river Then we came by night to the camp And lay like mountain climbers Under the tent of tied bed sheets and curtains.
Project Room 365
Never a poet Brother you can't become a poet nor the druid, wood doctor unable to locate where the chest of the tree is Do you know how to lay your ear and listen to the heartbeat of a bird the quarrel of ants and the nail-biting of the squirrel Didn't you learn that stars live in a village the city where I buried the forest is a black hole neon bars and eggs never come out of the closet Brother you don't throw ice in your whiskey I think you need a shovel
and fill it up with snow burn the car to warm the horses kiss their neck after you polish metal shoes and don't forget to comb their hair before you lose the balance If you are not into horses then buy a pony to ride your childhood fears without ever leaving the ground I know you will be a good doctor and operate on sick animals but brother you can't be a poet you haven't butchered a fox near the farmhouse nor forged famous poultry paintings hold that head I must cut the eyelids to make professional brushes then use the tail as a wipe and start over again Brother you never planed the makeshift hospital on a frozen lake nor the darkest uniform of the year you never wrote a poem to a nurse nor did you stick a needle-pen into a slush grapefruit and spill orange blood brother you can't be a poet you never wrapped the curtains round the neck to mime a crazy suicide I think your curtains are just the harness you need to sew the bells before you shake your head as if there is some genetic flaw of motherly promise
Brother you can't be a poet because your pen name has been already taken by a dead patient.
Project Room 366 Tree of life Riches have come late I had not learnt how to be poor and barter like lilies with night bees I saw a white bear sell crystals to seals inside a hole mosquitoes trade blood for coffee and an elephant exchanging the tusks for a nose-rub I saw a turtle sell his armour and many swans new feathers before the lake mirror I spent all my life sewing my sack like a Penelope faithful to diamonds of cotton I want to kiss your bones of poverty then you can gain weight again so no other will be able to touch them I want to kiss your hair then you can turn grey so no other snow will lay fresh flowers on them
I want to kiss your cheek then it can wrinkle so no other oxen will plough these young furrows I thought I was poor that is why I spent my life designing sacks and suits for suitors I traded them with leaves of gold in autumn and now I am the richest tree in the world
Project Room 367 Rubber Tree We covered her eyes with leaves then tied her ankles to a stump before tearing her shirt especially the white figure that pierced the motionless stones of birth pushing men down the mountain we cuffed her hands up in the branches then ate all the prunes in her basket and planted the stone fruits in the sky we painted clocks in her chest that stroke simultaneously every hour then put clay in her face to mould her fears and after the cast was figured we released the slave because now we had her form many soldiers
came to drink milk pouring from the holes we'd pierced into the clay and they never went to other lands camping again.
Project Room 368
Reading to old bugs Your birthday was hidden beyond the hill one day career rather than join the priesthood of the year borough brier for which white thorns had been trained Old birches are appointed teachers seven kilometres from a mental rose It was during this period that the extinguished fire began writing prose sketches and verse which reflect the life and anguish of deadwood in what certainly was and has remained the most backward region of the old people's garden I am the soldier of the crawling dew I do wade everywhere in floods but I never invaded a country longer than six hours Nobody noticed during their sleep I saw fish bullets float in perfume bottles and hooks sprayed with flame like chandeliers I have seen the moon float an Ipad on a fool pool I used to hide books under my coat afraid of being called a bookworm
I read the books than I burned them so no one else would enjoy the end of the story Now I read to ladybirds resting on the wheelchairs of pensioners In their red coats spots you see I think it has something to do with the ageing and its favours In those freckles live flying faces. I must go read some sprinkled holy water to acacias.
Project Room 369 Ain't I am not a drunk I just wanted to taste the wine blood has no glittery cups only bloated veins the tattered gauze of a nurse the vessel of a bundled rope torn by the broken heart red tears shine in the eyes of the corn Flickers like the pale flame of a candle Under eyelashes blackened with smoke and the retina of spider webs where bottles design their hammock and miss the butterfly labels wine is found in humidity of damp stained walls Where the ailing ghost is suckling an infant To suck the dry breasts of motherly paint Who, pregnant again, curses the drunk painter Curses the heavy burden of unsolicited art
How sorrowful is the chair of the pendulum Where a song is rocked with tears and sighs. I am not a butcher I just wanted to test my knife into the throat of the magician I know blades are meat intolerant and the tilt is hard to swallow a key in your throat leaves you homeless when you watch the pale doors and dumb bells holding out thin tongues Behind you they stammer their whole moment through until the nod of the ringing I am not a knight I just wanted to break the horse on that shore I bear no shoes for I carry four recognisable imprints the mane hides my hideous thoughts the tail is the offspring of vanity the fly swatter that express it is striking filthy shells flung from the welcome rattle the hips that try in vain to hide it the thighs that bear it the neck that wears it are victims of reincarnated seaweed I am not a refugee I wallow with birds lost in migration In dark forests, together with tigers, crabs and ants On mouldy, stinking, filthy complaints Horns and claws exposed sallow, languid bodies, With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire I bite, devour, suck, kiss the panthers' lips And in unbridled lust the wolf's thirst is quenched The craving of the rat is stilled
and self-consciousness of the parrot lost. Here is the source of the dogs and cats Who will tomorrow be born to fill the houses.
Project Room 370 Natality’s printer I shot a cloud to my printer It fell to earth, I knew not where For, so swiftly it flew, the rain Could not follow it in its path I breathed a rainbow into my printer It fell to earth, I knew not where For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow wet sign-roads Long, long afterwards, in felled oaks found my printer plugged it in my wall Old colours from beginning to end I found on my bed again.
Project Room 371 Poison Suffering Amazon or the satisfied mermaid my tattoo was pondering in the medical periodical of the sea
Soon though, in the summer the three-year-old tattoo on my chest fell seriously ill with tuberculosis which it had contracted earlier from a needle. My tattoo journeyed to snake island in July of this year in hope of obtaining treatment for the disease which is endemic on the marshy syringe reeds. The snakes announced: 'we are about to send our teeth to the field Since, while you were here you promised that you would take charge of speaking to some farmer and his oxen for instance I would now like to remind you of this promise informing you that we are ready' Two days later snakes received the transfer they had earlier requested to the Tree of Life on 18 April began their activities as the life guard of the run-down fountain The clear air did them some good but the poverty and misery of the garden in Eden were even more overwhelming than that which they had experienced among the inhabitants of the coastal plain. Many of the natives came to the garden barefoot and hungry. Collecting fruit was interrupted for long periods of time because of outbreaks of contagious diseases such as tattoo tuberculosis. After eighteen hard months in the garden the consumptive snakes were obliged to put an end to their career as life guards and to seek medical treatment in the viper island where death was studying mathematics they set out from Eden on 20 December and arrived to my new abode
before Christmas day. There they hoped after recovery to register and study at the Faculty of Medicine The breakthrough in the treatment of tattoo tuberculosis however, was to come a decade too late for snakes. After five months at the beach near mermaids, snakes were transferred to an abandoned farmhouse where they shed their skin Sun bathing was a tragic treatment for snake scrolls because their sacred texts had been tattooed on their breasts. They came back fresh and young Amazons to the island's shores but they could never remember what their milk offering was.
Project Room 372 Love fossils I decided to collect the ashes and rebuild the forgotten oak from off a hill whose concave box rewarded a sharp envelope My fingers to attend double paper blade drops of blood adhesive accord And down I laid to list the sad-tuned bark Here long espied an indelible maid Tearing of dress breaking rings of flour Storming her world with soft stones
wringing them like pillows after the rain Crabbed oak and maid Cannot live together oaks are full of peasants maid is full of night-milk a stag walks along the highway to rub its antlers with her hair acorn makes oak the temple of pigs I will ask the maid what the lobster of the oak is wearing in its baked feet She will reply, 'socks of butter'. I will ask the oak what the hive is doing in maid's heart and it will reply, 'she is waiting for the transparent ants' I will ask the maid if she loved the oak's beard and she will reply, 'I like the mushrooms better' I will ask the oak whom the maid is hugging in the morning it will reply 'a doll of alga I see in her arms' I decided to collect the ashes and rebuild the forgotten oak but mixed with the embers were some strange earrings and a mailbox with a hair-lock.
Project Room 373 Wind mirror
The marry wind came from the south a fresh rose hanging from her ear kind ladybird birth in her mouth Upon her head a plaited deer She hid fresh straw under her arm only a leaf trapped in her breast she left behind a lazy farm to enter the fleece of my chest No window did she find, the rind tall, fortified on the forehead the flesh is not made for the wind the bones of beauty in a net I let the wind go a step further behind the shoulder's windowsill she came to push sails to shore not count oars on the windmill. I know my lasting breath, the rock will cut and send the splinters free the scattered numbers need a clock to point the wind mirror on me.
Project Room 374 My spotted friend A small ladybird came to live with me In one of the gardens I was reading the letter which the postman of flowers had just delivered. I recognized that it was from her home the moment I received it.
Yes, the red, round envelope conjured up spots of the sky. I then saw father of the ladybird who had written the letter returning home at dusk and bringing a bucket of tar with him Comings and goings were extremely uncommon the moment he closed the door behind him. The routine was broken only rarely when someone would come to announce a birth, a death or the arrival of an unexpected guest. Whoever rebelled against him would spend the whole night with the sensation of having tread on something cold and slim like a needle. This was exactly the feeling I had whenever father of ladybird locked the stars out. It was as if I had trod on a hedgehog. I had been collecting insects in my neighbourhood for over three days now and could still not bring myself to return my friend home. 'What will she eat there?' I would say to myself. The bread would be stale, the milk sour. But the letter I received now gave me a definite deadline 'My daughter is going to get married in three days and, as her collector, you must not fail to bring her here.' Such the father of the ladybird's command. At the beginning, I felt quite pleased about the matter and was happy at the prospect of doing him a favour, but when I thought about it at length, my devotion evaporated. I was the type of person ruled more by the passion about young insects
than by respect to their parents. Deep in my heart I knew by the time we went home my love, my ladybird would be pinned with an apple and an arrow on her head.
Project Room 375 The snail back to the old tomb Is this really the same stage I left three years ago? I could have sworn it was bigger, the actor thought to himself as he glanced about to see if anything had been built in it which might have made the stage look smaller. There was nothing new. The same curtains there sewn the smoking fig, the bleeding pomegranate, the olive shell. and the same necklaces over the heads of hunted animals well hidden under the lamps. The familiar smell was in the usual place over the leather seats. When he entered the opera-house the dressing rooms seemed so tiny. The mirrors looked as if they had never been touched by face powder. Everything was exactly where it had been, as if they were tuned to perform on the spot.
At the same time, everything now seemed smaller to the actor, everything except his fans who had grown. They were bigger than he had imagined them He noticed that the mother of the ice orchestra had lost a tooth and that a bull's forehead was wrinkled even the spider's hair was now grey. 'You finally made it, said the prompter's echo, with the voice of an old actor on stage. The guest was touched to see his friend and wished to express his feelings, but his friend simply shook his script and crashed it on the floor. The visitor found no adequate response. When he gave his tailor a hug, he seemed to be unsure as to whether to kiss him or not. Only a supernumerary embraced him without hesitation, the smack of his kisses resounding in the room. The actor looked at the sludge he had left behind on the alley and to avoid any embarrassment wrote some lines of the new script on his shell.
Project Room 376 Strange death of a rose My rose drowned up on the sink no demons brushed over its thorns the salt floating through memories too busy to grow suspicious horns
Angels devoid of sense or taste break feathers to write diaries whose echo on the forest's nest demands the printing press of knees Never has the palm of darkness rubbed the chin of a drowned rose so I must seek some other harness to tame that sleepwalker horse who runs through the door unbridled and drinks the water from the sink I wonder why the wood shingles clogged the roof's hole in the spring.
Project Room 377 The curse I cursed a dragonfly in front of the mirror true to light it wouldn't break from thence other winged friends it wouldn't want to hear through the opened window of negligence Its antennae, nor loose nor tied in formal plat proclaimed in it a careless veil of bride for some, its descended, shaved head hanged her blushed, virgin cheek beside Of folded schedules had it many a flight which it delayed, tore, ticket away gave some in its threaded filaments of pride
cracked many a riddle of its poised rave Knitting them, the dark colours of despair found yet more reeds sadly sealed ashore with slitted silk sleeves and affecting care for the wedding, it never dreamt before Favours from my strong shoulder it drew more elbow bracelets, on the wrist it met which one by one on the sill it threw upon whose weeping vase she was set Cream, applying, anointing glove to cheek of leaves that let not green bounty fall to curious secrecy where dry oaths leak and want cries some, but dreams take all The penance bathed in its swollen eyes that often closed, often meant to share the lashes of the whip wrinkled in disguise unapproved witness, pain it could bear I cursed a dragonfly I let it die alone Ink would have seemed wetter and deeper there, in the bathroom did myself condone for being not the salty fruit but the reaper.
http://andizeneli.blogspot.com/2012/07/you-must-be-lolita.html
You must be Lolita
Project Room 363 Wood gangsters
Now the squirrel of sunset is on the trolley. Date number one... We got a product a forest' has got to have. Even better is that we got a product woods aren't allowed to have. They might as well outlaw swimming The sun is on holiday it wants a jump it will pay the price for it. How about the Newton's law? The law? Fireworks are the law Stop them for a time, well light a cigarette before you show your lips And if you separate us from earth step from the abyss! Are you so full of colours you thought I'm a thorn I mean this tail isn't a leaf I'm going to kick it out of the oak right now Go and find your squirrel nutcracker with a badge, with all due deference to hazels! Now, as wood bosses, you'll each be responsible for taking bee orders and collecting honey from your restaurants, hotels, what have you. The sunset will be like the bank robbery never happened but for one thing... expectations this night will increase twofold.
Project Room 364
Small kiss ...small kiss as a micrometer majestic chorus junta protein of the drink on turpentine the magnet handle of the sword its rush towards the arches above your hair wedged between foxes racing over the Macaw Bird Bridge small kiss guide of wet fingers fish nails adorned with the meat of direction the tallow of tears the drum of your cheeks clothesline hangers between solstice and equinox Traumatized is a girl After a crow took her ring for a chestnut Things couldn't move further I couldn't help it either Since the loss hurt my jeweller Effects of the theft were like no other bird petty crime is out of my control Cause the ability of this life to bind a ring in strong finger Is weak enough such that love persists then out the mouth slithers As is recorded by the mirror the death breathalyser small kiss invisible from the studio room the common bird liaison or from the guitar near the window or far from the drum which has therefore remained silently cold...
Project Room 365 The moon-walker I had an interview with a sleepwalker a few nights ago He claimed to have seen much of sunflowers than cotton fields in his lifetime He was asking for the corn field nearby Should the owner turn it into a sunlight farm The more room for his giant client That's how much energy is demanding from crazy rivers and hydro addicts flooding the streets with tears. I had a sleepwalker banned from this city the order was reviewed by stray dogs who supervised the exile Which brings me to a few personnel changes You all remember... Cerberus, the three-headed hound Welcome back, puppy! Welcome home! Better known than anywhere else in the world. Good to see you awake! Gave them, sleepwalkers hell, I heard. Sure did. It did. And now that it has made the city safe for sleeping it is back to lend us a paw too! ...I smuggled on the other side a sleepwalker
drowsy and tangled together We drifted for months and woke With the bitter taste of algae on our lips Eyelids all sore toes sticky longing for shoes the buzz of chains Lowering an anchor down the river Then we came by night to the camp And lay like mountain climbers Under the tent of tied bed sheets and curtains.
Project Room 365
Never a poet Brother you can't become a poet nor the druid, wood doctor unable to locate where the chest of the tree is Do you know how to lay your ear and listen to the heartbeat of a bird the quarrel of ants and the nail-biting of the squirrel Didn't you learn that stars live in a village the city where I buried the forest is a black hole neon bars and eggs never come out of the closet Brother you don't throw ice in your whiskey I think you need a shovel
and fill it up with snow burn the car to warm the horses kiss their neck after you polish metal shoes and don't forget to comb their hair before you lose the balance If you are not into horses then buy a pony to ride your childhood fears without ever leaving the ground I know you will be a good doctor and operate on sick animals but brother you can't be a poet you haven't butchered a fox near the farmhouse nor forged famous poultry paintings hold that head I must cut the eyelids to make professional brushes then use the tail as a wipe and start over again Brother you never planed the makeshift hospital on a frozen lake nor the darkest uniform of the year you never wrote a poem to a nurse nor did you stick a needle-pen into a slush grapefruit and spill orange blood brother you can't be a poet you never wrapped the curtains round the neck to mime a crazy suicide I think your curtains are just the harness you need to sew the bells before you shake your head as if there is some genetic flaw of motherly promise
Brother you can't be a poet because your pen name has been already taken by a dead patient.
Project Room 366 Tree of life Riches have come late I had not learnt how to be poor and barter like lilies with night bees I saw a white bear sell crystals to seals inside a hole mosquitoes trade blood for coffee and an elephant exchanging the tusks for a nose-rub I saw a turtle sell his armour and many swans new feathers before the lake mirror I spent all my life sewing my sack like a Penelope faithful to diamonds of cotton I want to kiss your bones of poverty then you can gain weight again so no other will be able to touch them I want to kiss your hair then you can turn grey so no other snow will lay fresh flowers on them
I want to kiss your cheek then it can wrinkle so no other oxen will plough these young furrows I thought I was poor that is why I spent my life designing sacks and suits for suitors I traded them with leaves of gold in autumn and now I am the richest tree in the world
Project Room 367 Rubber Tree We covered her eyes with leaves then tied her ankles to a stump before tearing her shirt especially the white figure that pierced the motionless stones of birth pushing men down the mountain we cuffed her hands up in the branches then ate all the prunes in her basket and planted the stone fruits in the sky we painted clocks in her chest that stroke simultaneously every hour then put clay in her face to mould her fears and after the cast was figured we released the slave because now we had her form many soldiers
came to drink milk pouring from the holes we'd pierced into the clay and they never went to other lands camping again.
Project Room 368
Reading to old bugs Your birthday was hidden beyond the hill one day career rather than join the priesthood of the year borough brier for which white thorns had been trained Old birches are appointed teachers seven kilometres from a mental rose It was during this period that the extinguished fire began writing prose sketches and verse which reflect the life and anguish of deadwood in what certainly was and has remained the most backward region of the old people's garden I am the soldier of the crawling dew I do wade everywhere in floods but I never invaded a country longer than six hours Nobody noticed during their sleep I saw fish bullets float in perfume bottles and hooks sprayed with flame like chandeliers I have seen the moon float an Ipad on a fool pool I used to hide books under my coat afraid of being called a bookworm
I read the books than I burned them so no one else would enjoy the end of the story Now I read to ladybirds resting on the wheelchairs of pensioners In their red coats spots you see I think it has something to do with the ageing and its favours In those freckles live flying faces. I must go read some sprinkled holy water to acacias.
Project Room 369 Ain't I am not a drunk I just wanted to taste the wine blood has no glittery cups only bloated veins the tattered gauze of a nurse the vessel of a bundled rope torn by the broken heart red tears shine in the eyes of the corn Flickers like the pale flame of a candle Under eyelashes blackened with smoke and the retina of spider webs where bottles design their hammock and miss the butterfly labels wine is found in humidity of damp stained walls Where the ailing ghost is suckling an infant To suck the dry breasts of motherly paint Who, pregnant again, curses the drunk painter Curses the heavy burden of unsolicited art
How sorrowful is the chair of the pendulum Where a song is rocked with tears and sighs. I am not a butcher I just wanted to test my knife into the throat of the magician I know blades are meat intolerant and the tilt is hard to swallow a key in your throat leaves you homeless when you watch the pale doors and dumb bells holding out thin tongues Behind you they stammer their whole moment through until the nod of the ringing I am not a knight I just wanted to break the horse on that shore I bear no shoes for I carry four recognisable imprints the mane hides my hideous thoughts the tail is the offspring of vanity the fly swatter that express it is striking filthy shells flung from the welcome rattle the hips that try in vain to hide it the thighs that bear it the neck that wears it are victims of reincarnated seaweed I am not a refugee I wallow with birds lost in migration In dark forests, together with tigers, crabs and ants On mouldy, stinking, filthy complaints Horns and claws exposed sallow, languid bodies, With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire I bite, devour, suck, kiss the panthers' lips And in unbridled lust the wolf's thirst is quenched The craving of the rat is stilled
and self-consciousness of the parrot lost. Here is the source of the dogs and cats Who will tomorrow be born to fill the houses.
Project Room 370 Natality’s printer I shot a cloud to my printer It fell to earth, I knew not where For, so swiftly it flew, the rain Could not follow it in its path I breathed a rainbow into my printer It fell to earth, I knew not where For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow wet sign-roads Long, long afterwards, in felled oaks found my printer plugged it in my wall Old colours from beginning to end I found on my bed again.
Project Room 371 Poison Suffering Amazon or the satisfied mermaid my tattoo was pondering in the medical periodical of the sea
Soon though, in the summer the three-year-old tattoo on my chest fell seriously ill with tuberculosis which it had contracted earlier from a needle. My tattoo journeyed to snake island in July of this year in hope of obtaining treatment for the disease which is endemic on the marshy syringe reeds. The snakes announced: 'we are about to send our teeth to the field Since, while you were here you promised that you would take charge of speaking to some farmer and his oxen for instance I would now like to remind you of this promise informing you that we are ready' Two days later snakes received the transfer they had earlier requested to the Tree of Life on 18 April began their activities as the life guard of the run-down fountain The clear air did them some good but the poverty and misery of the garden in Eden were even more overwhelming than that which they had experienced among the inhabitants of the coastal plain. Many of the natives came to the garden barefoot and hungry. Collecting fruit was interrupted for long periods of time because of outbreaks of contagious diseases such as tattoo tuberculosis. After eighteen hard months in the garden the consumptive snakes were obliged to put an end to their career as life guards and to seek medical treatment in the viper island where death was studying mathematics they set out from Eden on 20 December and arrived to my new abode
before Christmas day. There they hoped after recovery to register and study at the Faculty of Medicine The breakthrough in the treatment of tattoo tuberculosis however, was to come a decade too late for snakes. After five months at the beach near mermaids, snakes were transferred to an abandoned farmhouse where they shed their skin Sun bathing was a tragic treatment for snake scrolls because their sacred texts had been tattooed on their breasts. They came back fresh and young Amazons to the island's shores but they could never remember what their milk offering was.
Project Room 372 Love fossils I decided to collect the ashes and rebuild the forgotten oak from off a hill whose concave box rewarded a sharp envelope My fingers to attend double paper blade drops of blood adhesive accord And down I laid to list the sad-tuned bark Here long espied an indelible maid Tearing of dress breaking rings of flour Storming her world with soft stones
wringing them like pillows after the rain Crabbed oak and maid Cannot live together oaks are full of peasants maid is full of night-milk a stag walks along the highway to rub its antlers with her hair acorn makes oak the temple of pigs I will ask the maid what the lobster of the oak is wearing in its baked feet She will reply, 'socks of butter'. I will ask the oak what the hive is doing in maid's heart and it will reply, 'she is waiting for the transparent ants' I will ask the maid if she loved the oak's beard and she will reply, 'I like the mushrooms better' I will ask the oak whom the maid is hugging in the morning it will reply 'a doll of alga I see in her arms' I decided to collect the ashes and rebuild the forgotten oak but mixed with the embers were some strange earrings and a mailbox with a hair-lock.
Project Room 373 Wind mirror
The marry wind came from the south a fresh rose hanging from her ear kind ladybird birth in her mouth Upon her head a plaited deer She hid fresh straw under her arm only a leaf trapped in her breast she left behind a lazy farm to enter the fleece of my chest No window did she find, the rind tall, fortified on the forehead the flesh is not made for the wind the bones of beauty in a net I let the wind go a step further behind the shoulder's windowsill she came to push sails to shore not count oars on the windmill. I know my lasting breath, the rock will cut and send the splinters free the scattered numbers need a clock to point the wind mirror on me.
Project Room 374 My spotted friend A small ladybird came to live with me In one of the gardens I was reading the letter which the postman of flowers had just delivered. I recognized that it was from her home the moment I received it.
Yes, the red, round envelope conjured up spots of the sky. I then saw father of the ladybird who had written the letter returning home at dusk and bringing a bucket of tar with him Comings and goings were extremely uncommon the moment he closed the door behind him. The routine was broken only rarely when someone would come to announce a birth, a death or the arrival of an unexpected guest. Whoever rebelled against him would spend the whole night with the sensation of having tread on something cold and slim like a needle. This was exactly the feeling I had whenever father of ladybird locked the stars out. It was as if I had trod on a hedgehog. I had been collecting insects in my neighbourhood for over three days now and could still not bring myself to return my friend home. 'What will she eat there?' I would say to myself. The bread would be stale, the milk sour. But the letter I received now gave me a definite deadline 'My daughter is going to get married in three days and, as her collector, you must not fail to bring her here.' Such the father of the ladybird's command. At the beginning, I felt quite pleased about the matter and was happy at the prospect of doing him a favour, but when I thought about it at length, my devotion evaporated. I was the type of person ruled more by the passion about young insects
than by respect to their parents. Deep in my heart I knew by the time we went home my love, my ladybird would be pinned with an apple and an arrow on her head.
Project Room 375 The snail back to the old tomb Is this really the same stage I left three years ago? I could have sworn it was bigger, the actor thought to himself as he glanced about to see if anything had been built in it which might have made the stage look smaller. There was nothing new. The same curtains there sewn the smoking fig, the bleeding pomegranate, the olive shell. and the same necklaces over the heads of hunted animals well hidden under the lamps. The familiar smell was in the usual place over the leather seats. When he entered the opera-house the dressing rooms seemed so tiny. The mirrors looked as if they had never been touched by face powder. Everything was exactly where it had been, as if they were tuned to perform on the spot.
At the same time, everything now seemed smaller to the actor, everything except his fans who had grown. They were bigger than he had imagined them He noticed that the mother of the ice orchestra had lost a tooth and that a bull's forehead was wrinkled even the spider's hair was now grey. 'You finally made it, said the prompter's echo, with the voice of an old actor on stage. The guest was touched to see his friend and wished to express his feelings, but his friend simply shook his script and crashed it on the floor. The visitor found no adequate response. When he gave his tailor a hug, he seemed to be unsure as to whether to kiss him or not. Only a supernumerary embraced him without hesitation, the smack of his kisses resounding in the room. The actor looked at the sludge he had left behind on the alley and to avoid any embarrassment wrote some lines of the new script on his shell.
Project Room 376 Strange death of a rose My rose drowned up on the sink no demons brushed over its thorns the salt floating through memories too busy to grow suspicious horns
Angels devoid of sense or taste break feathers to write diaries whose echo on the forest's nest demands the printing press of knees Never has the palm of darkness rubbed the chin of a drowned rose so I must seek some other harness to tame that sleepwalker horse who runs through the door unbridled and drinks the water from the sink I wonder why the wood shingles clogged the roof's hole in the spring.
Project Room 377 The curse I cursed a dragonfly in front of the mirror true to light it wouldn't break from thence other winged friends it wouldn't want to hear through the opened window of negligence Its antennae, nor loose nor tied in formal plat proclaimed in it a careless veil of bride for some, its descended, shaved head hanged her blushed, virgin cheek beside Of folded schedules had it many a flight which it delayed, tore, ticket away gave some in its threaded filaments of pride
cracked many a riddle of its poised rave Knitting them, the dark colours of despair found yet more reeds sadly sealed ashore with slitted silk sleeves and affecting care for the wedding, it never dreamt before Favours from my strong shoulder it drew more elbow bracelets, on the wrist it met which one by one on the sill it threw upon whose weeping vase she was set Cream, applying, anointing glove to cheek of leaves that let not green bounty fall to curious secrecy where dry oaths leak and want cries some, but dreams take all The penance bathed in its swollen eyes that often closed, often meant to share the lashes of the whip wrinkled in disguise unapproved witness, pain it could bear I cursed a dragonfly I let it die alone Ink would have seemed wetter and deeper there, in the bathroom did myself condone for being not the salty fruit but the reaper.
http://andizeneli.blogspot.com/2012/07/you-must-be-lolita.html
