by kvennarad

“Where are you at? You’ve forsaken
..resistance for love, now you mawk
..and gowk and boak and make mouths

..like a gym slip teen clutching books
..below her bosom. Where’s your old
..dada découpage? You kick and kick

..and kick at a plastic cup till it busts
..but then you leave it lying for some
..other hapless wee bugger to stoop to.”


..We live in a box with a few random
..pencil-jags for air holes; every once
..in a time a random deity shines light
..– it could be yellow, it could be grey,
..it could be diffuse, it could generate
..little rainbows that keep up our slack
..attention for a few minutes – through
..the holes and persuades us to wake,
..so we all hail/hallelujah as if voiced.


I give emotions to skies, castles and
landscapes, weather, etc. with all the
lack of care of the jinky woman who

thought mulatto was a kind of coffee
[MEMO: ask for one and see where it
gets you!]; I’ve given over my pencil

for a usb stick; I’ll give time of day to
anyone who’ll read, let rot my letters,
litter the feus with my capital clerking.


©Marie Marshall