“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington

The dull gleam of the setting sun,
Thin and feeble like feathers of birds-
Maybe of a tired avian who has forgotten to fly.
It paints the woods in the weakest shade,
Shades of yellow and shades of red.
The leaves fall, dead and dry,
They break the sacred silent peace.
I stand and hear and I shiver in fear.
It is not the fear of the blind future,
It is not the fear of the things unknown.
It is the dread of nothing
The terrifying thought of,
Absolute, dreaded, pitch black null
It haunts my truth, it strikes my mind
It molds my sanity into a copy,
A perfect copy of the dark deep space.

I see the slow approaching mist,
Deathly white and wildly soothing, like a dream,
A dream dreamt many years before.
It mutters words of darkest comforts
And sings the melody of chilling joy.
The tune of it, slow and soothing, Calls me closer.
Just like how a lullaby, uttered by a mother's lips,
Takes a child to a place of solace,
How it takes him to the caves of sleep.
I walk possessed, I walk towards the call
Cursed by the desire for warmth,
Some final warmth in the cold arms of death.

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
it settled deep in your ribs—
grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow.

Outside, the trees towered,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives,
small mouths learned silence.

The mirrors cracked,
but nobody asked why.
Lullabies were hunger songs,
bedtime stories always ending with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.

hope ferments

a sweet berry
intoxicating

as the patient table
tending to the wine

bottled blessing
blood of a saint

gently rippling
in silence

and indifference
a crutch to hold your will

the black dog sneers
growls in your ear

twined,
grey & silver sing along
the edges of consciousness,
bolstering themselves
in the still

life of subtle breathing, the ear,
caught by midnight’s velvet

blue, drinking muted honey
dark’s elixir, a blanketed embrace

technicolor mind dance, coupled
with the gauzed feet of presence

these are Nox’s symphony of arms
wrapping awareness inside her
primordial soup

They paint red
She is happy
She is a great artist
She draws a pattern
She thinks it is the finest

Gaza's streets are filled with red

It may be surrealist
You must blind your heart
And say as the world  told
Thanks thank God
As you created like that
Israel killed these animals
As they do not deserve to be lived
You must solid your mind
And dance, dance very fast
And drink barrels of highball
To see the world's talk
To see how it is so having tale
that Israel is doing well

it may paint of realistic
it reflects a view of fact
telling Israel is the master
Arabs must bow and worship her more

It may be line
And see how Arabs are awful
They don't deserve a1ot to be wonderful
**** , **** with your powerful
To destroy Arabs at all

It may be a cartoon
they tell Arabs doing as Tom
Who looks stupid and will fall
Doom to undeveloped persons
****** over that world
Which encourages the unjust
And she will **** ****
As the baby does with his doll

filaments burst into
eveningsong

deepthroated embers
the spreadsheets are tender
gestured compliance

(redwhite&blue glare; 10 storeys below ; and we are not safe)

          'just get done with it'
insincerity is requisite -
forced insouciance

          'we need to go, we are not safe'
rottten dignity can only be stomached for too long
but his sister is only twelve.

deceit, dulcet, you have gone wild
better you, just not the child -
'babe, wait, I’m coming'

tears tickle the back of the tongue
mellifluous moan regurgitated in turn.

filaments burst into
eveningsong -
- the police is coming, the police is coming.