Tag: a.i.Art
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Me & Marcel
THE OLD WOMAN AND A MOUSE NAMED MARCEL The Forbidden Word The Old Woman sits at the kitchen table, looking distinctly cross. Marcel is extracting a raisin from a slice of fruit loaf. “What’s wrong?” he asks.“Someone wants my poem deleted,” she says.“Was it very bad?”“No.”“Did it rhyme?” “That’s beside the point, Shoelace.” “Then what…
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0911: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Lie That Kept the Children Fed I. The Sin That Has No NameThere is a sinthat the catechism does not list. It is not theft, though something is taken.It is not adultery, though a bed is left cold.It is not murder, though a man is buriedin the silence of his own wife.…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Birthday Grievance(Or: A Feline Case for Cake) The cat sits on the windowsill,nose pressed to glass,watching the boy across the streetrun through a garden of balloons,bunting,and what appears to bea very large cake. His tail twitches.His ears flatten. “Old Woman,” he says,without turning,“why have I never had a birthday party?Why has my existencenot been…
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The Old Woman & Marcel
A Penny for the Guy “…and will you stop calling me Shoelace. My tail does not look like a shoelace.” Marcel sits beneath the table with a chocolate cereal box over his head. “What are you doing, Marcel?” “Taking precautions.” “Against what?” “The British.” “That’s rather broad.” BOOM. “See?” “It’s Guy Fawkes Night, Shoelace.” “Yes.…
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Stream of Consciousness
The Last Four Pages(in the style of James Joyce’s Molly Bloom’s interior monologue) I poured myself into a cup of coffee this morning no sugar just milk, and then opened my notebook which has only four more pages left in it so that should give me eight days except the last page overleaf is a…
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The Old Woman & Marcel
The Old Woman and Marcel (or the universe remembers its own size) The Old Woman was writing about short things when a mouse climbs onto the table. ‘Small,’ she said, looking at him.‘Relative,’ said Marcel, looking at the cheese. Then he wrote: Short My legs are short.My reach is shorter.But leave the cheese too near…
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0311: dVerse Quadrille
The Shrilling that storm left us chilly mornings,hedgerows more thorn than leaf, and every bird, insect,winged or walking shrilling with sound. I scarcely moveshould they ceaseand fall into quietness. but they sing,so persistentand insistent. T’is joy, by my own creation. Written for dVerse Poets and De’s Quadrille #259 (44-words excluding the title) including the word…
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03.11: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Fragments That Will Not Fit(for the questions that multiply in the silence) I. The Moulding of Reasonable ExplanationsShe tries to build a storyfrom the pieces on the table:the ring with Mairi inside,the spiral lock in its sealed envelope,the photographs that will not speak,the dogs that face the sea. Perhaps Mairi was a…
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0111: Samhain
Air Won’t Hold Her this air won’t hold leaves,it is to watch a thousandsouls falling. wind.unstitched. I am allof my ancestors. it is as she said,to hold darknessis your last veil. this is the lastof eight days, of Samhain. I remember the yearit snowedon Samhain, the dark arms of treeswidespread. I walked in my footstepsback…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Reads Proudhon (Or: An Anarchist’s Dilemma at the Window) The cat is sprawled across a stack of borrowed philosophy, “What Is Property” One paw rests on a particularly underlined passage:“Property is theft!” “Finally,” the mutters cat,“a human who understands.” He looks around the room:at the cushion he’s claimed,at the sunbeam he’s monopolised,at the…
