We called ourselves Lucy and Ethyl, always getting into some sort of trouble. Two sisters, partners in crime, been places nobody knows about, done things nobody should. Problem is, time is short. What happens when you’re the only one left, who remembers?
the way we laugh
was it a dream, Lucy?
mouths stuffed full of chocolate
Susan Beth Furst
“I have no sympathy for gays and lesbians. It turns me off to watch them holding hands in public. That’s not normal.”
“Sorry, but I totally disagree. I met many gays when I worked at the theatre and almost everyone was lovable, sensitive and talented.”
“Okay, maybe you are right. During carnival, when I was young, I was dancing cancan in the ballet.”
“Oh, I remember. It was so horrible. Old men with fat bellies in tutus. That really disgusted me. ”
in the nearby village
a rooster crows
Sadly the pepper dies. The debate that follows leaves the olive oil upset. Six days follow
w/ no dawn – so it’s like, twelve nights, for those keeping score. Although painful we scoop the debates into tiny supermarket trollies. Defining us as hunchbacks the debates make it hard for us to live, even though they are tiny – maybe even smaller than ants that live in the gravel in the summer time. And if that wasn’t bad enough the tiny debates overheard what I just said about the ants and are now making sure we have no ants next summer. It’s all a little unnecessary, if you ask me.
no oneʼs an arsehole
when theyʼre dead
, and it was very surreal, like a dream within a dream
I remember the first time my grandmother said she loved me. It was right before she asked if I could buy her some cat food.
before the crash, seconds really do become miles
it’s wherever you drop
through the silence clicks from the central heating ticks from the clock
black against black
in the car park a crow
pecks at the frost
strings and a bow that’s all it takes though maybe a hand would help and a shoulder to cry on
snowman plays Bach
a scarecrow Vivaldi
all my best work thrown out with the rubbish this sea of troubles
a crow silhouetted
perched on a wave
With undisclosed sources of funding, our project was going quite well. The objective was to develop a secret society of super-ants which would combat terrorism, cause humans to hide underground like sand dogs. Within a large container supplied with piped in air, we grew several colonies of mutated ants. We observed and noted their daily behaviors. They built cities and highways, erected small pyramid-shaped monuments. Over a period of time, many grew bigger, stronger, could even stand upright. According to Heiseman, Fletcher, et. al., a scenario was outlined.
The ants rose from their cities, climbed along the walls of the glass and ate their way through the black rubber tops, which they must have mistaken for a betrayal of sky. Several must have hid in the back rooms of the lab and it was theorized that one of these killed the night watchman and escaped. The night it happened to me, I was in a sound sleep. Perhaps it located my whereabouts by gamma-Ga radiation.
I heard the clomping, something climbing up the steps, a slow, heavy rhythm, the sound, I imagine a serial killer makes to let his victim know what is in store. I awoke to the giant ant, pinning my arms to the bed with its virulent pincers. This mutated ant, I remembered, was one of my most fascinating subjects and we spent hours studying each other from either side of the glass receptacle. Staring into my face with its gleaming marble eyes and in a low, clear voice resembling my own, it now asked, Who is your god?
i said wing dings, junior,
& no bugs in my bugles