During that final Indian summer of Keynesian Economics
The men with handlebar moustaches played cricket
Whilst I dived too deep searching for coins.
The Black Orchid swoons, beautiful but fragile.
The shell-shocked man loved it so much. Too much.
They thought they were kings, but on the continent
Blood was boiling in some Byzantine pot.
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There were things to fear, so I feared them.
Sound in the water pipes,
shadow near the coat rack,
blackbird outside my window
Pipe-creak like a frog growling.
Little sound. Little frog. Little shadow, little bird. Little girl. Little.
Not scared, frog, I tell him.
I’ve been on antipsychotics for, let me think, six months now, and I’m antipsychotic enough to tell you about them. They’re numbing, the way holding a cold drink in winter is numbing, and cozy, the way not losing your mind is cozy: it’s numbing and cozy, but it’s not real life, of course, because real life doesn’t come in an orange pill bottle.
There I was
hips swaying from side to side
legs shifting my body weight from one to the other
the corners of my mouth curling up in a guilt-laden smirk
It felt good
I almost felt like some provocateur,
Swirling the cream around the dirge coffee.
The chocolate sprinkles, soldiers of my imagination.
My life, that of an Austrian sankt;
Meaning something, like the death of that man
On the cross meant something.
In a house with bare white walls
crow’s feet nestle grey eyes
and white hair fades to blue.
Lipstick stains a chipped front tooth