8.2.13

diphyllodes magnificus

dear diary,
different cities,
different rooms,
different names,
and as I stride past crystal palace
everything is silent.

parks.

early dawning:
we see a soaking madame de l'amour
marching over the grounds of the royal gardens, dragging by the collar a small girl
a peroxide gloria of candy floss a pale blue dress ruthlessly drowning spider limbs
her sheer cotton skin shredded in the turmoil
her breath bruised by sweet cherry wine
her blood stained hands
with dirty claws echoing the scarlet scratches upon
the back of a tiny tin soldier, his face buried in the pavement.

sunday morning:
and in the background, the faint cries of restless hands
relentlessly pounding the keys of an ivory piano,
infernal harmonies quietly writhing through the bleak landscape,
creasing on the silver lake like black serpents.
(like cockroaches heavy thoughts flee
by the sight of the exterminator,
chanting alice, alice, oh alice.)

and when the hermit walks, I run
the shadows cannot not haunt you.

serenity.

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