BEETHOVEN

 

and then it snowed and

when Beethoven looked at himself the whites in his eyes were still white

did not sink into the snow

on his lips red Chanel

washes the moonlight from his face

Beethoven does not care about moonlight or paper flowers

he asks me why nobody drinks TAB any longer?

why jelly vibrates ?

he does not care about the crumbles left behind -

blood water in a styrofoam tray,  lamb hearts thawing in a sink

bottle caps like fallen leaves

he does not care about the shadows on your face - 

the generations of mute sparrows, their broken beaks

words that vanish as day breaks

and then it snowed

and when Beethoven looked at himself

the whites in his eyes remained white

did not sink into the snow

 

 

II

Beethoven has started finding moths in his beard.

Rusty red and black ladybugs appear on the music sheets. They do not disappear when he closes his eyes.

There is night there is day.

So and so.

So he thinks about how he has never punched anyone straight in the face.

So he thinks about wet baby’s fingers.

So he thinks about the garbage men who come on Mondays and Thursdays.

So he thinks about moths that fall silently into the bathroom sink.

So he thinks about the notes that turned into beetles.

So he thinks about fingers turning yellow.

So he thinks how he’d like to stand up and punch someone straight in the face. 

So he stands up.

So he sits down.

So there is night.

So there is day. 

So and so.

 

 

BETUS THE FETUS

 

Week 7

At night she tells him stories under her breath. Stories of nipples growing like weeds in arctic heather. She stretches her arms towards the ceiling. Towards a diluted sunrise melting into the whites of her eyes. But he does not hear her any longer. He cannot see anything any longer.

 

 

Week 17

I cannot stop thinking about soft skin the space where neck takes over from beard about faded moths in a white forest and a mother humming a moonlight sonata what her voice must sound like in his ears I cannot stop thinking about day and night taking turns on his face about naked soles and the floor they rest on I cannot stop thinking about a rusty red shell with black dots flickering about in a drop of water at the bottom of a bathtub cannot stop thinking about hollow shells about whether it begins like this.

 

THE MOTHER

My mother in the reeds is dark. She dreams of a black Cadillac and an ash tree in the road side.

Her father used to tell her she wants too much. Her father used to tell her not to follow strangers to the shade.

But the sun does not go down. The sun does not go down. Still.

My mother in the reeds is dark.

Her face was sparkling on your TV screen. Remember that day? Were you watching? One guy (at least) had one leg shorter than the other. Then. Some of them wore jewelries. Gold. Diamonds. Gemstones. Moonstones. Tree arrows. Celtic symbols and Norse runes. Nose rings. Neck rings. A few had painted their faces white with flour. Chains banging against necks and foreheads.  A baseball cap saying LOBSTER lay on the floor. A skirt made out of banana leaves rustled against her legs. Tattooed arms on her thighs. Soft and coarse voices lurking in the dark. Salty beaks. And somebody holding her shoulders. Always somebody holding her shoulders