This was just written, Gentle Reader, this very minute. There was a lengthy process that took hours that I used, and I’m not really certain how I feel about this piece just at the moment, or if it was worth it. Nonetheless, here it is. It will doubtless be polished and edited later, but here it is, rough and unnamed.You’re old enough to lie, aren’t you, darling? It’s life at all that’s so hard: In the uninhabitable hours, I dally with my memories of you, Then I put on a veil, blow out the candle, and hide on the chaise – Sometimes, it’s necessary to lounge in evening clothes all day. I want to arise, like a libertine angel, covered in cloud and in fire; My heart was not gnawed by a specific tiger, my love. There are days when I hardly speak; I will frequently take vows of silence that are broken within an hour. The ghost of Yeats will not leave me alone, today, And I can think of no better way to die than a bathtub of champagne: My sorrows, apparently, are survivors – why won’t we drown? The secret ingredient is my blood; it tastes of cocktail music. I had a dream, of the Emperor and Empress of Brazil; We discovered a hamlet drowned in years, at the foot of an active volcano. I had a strange desire to replace my teeth with carved ivory, and with the unfertilized eggs of a dead woman. In the uninhabitable hours, my love, I grow frustrated by the intersection of our madness. The ghosts of our surviving sorrows, and our dreams, buried in an antique child-sized casket, Are covered in cloud and fire. You’re old enough to lie, aren’t you, darling? It’s life at all that’s so hard.
©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved