Shhhh, my husband is trying to write...

I'm in a pediatric emergency roomThere are teenagers who don't want to liveAnd babies who won'tBecause viruses still spread and people won't learnThe election results are coming inAnd somehowFucking somehowUnderqualified, overly bigoted politicians still winUnder the banner…

The misspent effort reposed spontaneously, a prank worth ending with the dog letter: “GrrrrrrrR!”

We all get in a carriage of tin and volcanic glass and go a-touring. We had quite an itinerary to fulfill, all of it loosely applied to the principle of serendipity. We toured Luxembourg and tossed pretzels to the bankers who did tricks for us, somersaults and complex…

A drunken evening, both men soused and twitchy. An argument ensues with Yellow House roommate Paul Gauguin. The two dissing each other’s work like clicking beetles

For a man with a poor command of English, he managed to describe his recent redundancy with aplomb. “One week, everything perfect; the next week –” He mimicked a noose being fixed around his neck and I sat and watched his eyes bulge.

The neighbor was a little woman...

I wanted none of her. But also that day I had just finished The Story of 0., and my mind was full of sadistic whimsies and the mood of anythingness that the book instills: the pound of fleshness. Anyway, I sneered at her and told her she bored me, and sat

"Where've you been?" the image in the mirror asked. "I haven't seen you since yesterday," she said. "Yeah, I miss you too," he said.

No harp now hails, / no wood sings mirth, no good hawk / swoops through the hall, no swift steed / paws dirt in the castle-yard. Woeful death / has emptied earth of an ancient race.

The fire was so fierce,so fair like an opal;the most primal burn."Death haunts these trees,"the woman said, as she held the potof beetroot soup above the fire.They spoke from the basement; living in the dark space,nerves too locked up to to look out the windowand…

. . .and still wild roses star far fields the same.

As ghosts, they became lovers. Rodion would strum the Underwood keys like a balalaika. Lizaveta would sing.

...the room was filled with a brightness and a breeze, making you think you were up in the clouds.

[Scumbag scumbag ― fuck you!!! Stop reading this it's my private JOURNAL!!! Thanks. ;) ]