Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Museo Nazionale del Cinema

Strange it is to wake up in a dream but perhaps stranger still to enter one while still walking in the waking world. I had a similar feeling, a cousin trice removed maybe, when I stepped indoors that I was not setting foot indoors as much as in doors, I mean into the interior spaces that are at once an expression of the exterior space and not their opposite at all. Giggling fingers were turning like butterflies beating their wings through twisting paths of time, leaving Rorschach impressions on the walls. They spoke in strange languages but not to me. A gigantic lizard loomed on a launching pad to the night sky, open mouthed and comical as a bumpkin in a barnyard. And I was not afraid but entranced by its strangeness when it leaned down to kiss the top if my bent head. And there too was a daguerreotype of a leopard wearing breeches and I saw you (yes you!) rowing the gondola in the magic lantern full of gilded light. Walls spoke and moved and on a tawdry bed or red velvet I slept, awoke with the memory of dreams erotic and terrible and then forgot that I had slept at all.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

And so it doth today

There was once a strange meeting on a beach where rain made abbreviated rivers to swell the waves.
And we there were luminous too though ill-content for we found ourselves in a hole created by our own weight. All the water in the world was at our feet but, Tantalus like, it could not give us to drink or ever mount high enough to buoy our floundered corpuses out of the depression, nor bear us upside down, like a snuffed candle, going out with the tide.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Lvice

Something leonine is stalking through the meads of summer. A giant apartment complex lurks on the edges of the suburban savanna and saliva drips from its gills. It is baked, beached and chlorinated, longing for rain or for (a) pride to come devour it whole.

In another life it was a teaming commune, an Amazon of Amazons, a multiverse of human verses where people grew tall and strong without fear. But that was long ago.

But I should therefore put these living fantasies to wrest and lay my head on some moist Austrian hillock where cotton shrouds and grass stained knees are the gifts of childhood. There is contentment writ large and full in the mist of late morning. The pyparii are turning golden on the tree stems preparing themselves for palimpsest and girls of 16 are pages to write on.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Prague Groteque

The fun house's up the hill but not nearly as creepy as one would hope. There are smiling children and ice cream cones where rictus devil's dung should grace their young tongues. Only the labyrinth of mirrors manages not to disappoint. Base desires decorate the wall here and series of homunculi parade around, their heads distended and genitals exposed. One cannot but suppose that it is fitting that the stomach be so belled and gaseous and that the arms are shrunken in proportion of to our thoughts. The glasses are old and wavery, like flutes spilling over with too much champagne, that is if the champagne was laced with paragoric, sidling into your bowls and turning them into glaciated flows. Under the light there a blond child gazes at her aqueous hair flaring into an areola. She looks like carillions should look, if carillions had a youth and the youth wore patent leather.