Wendy House

Dreary an hour now, black wetness,

Some skin on quarry tiling all squares and squares pulled,

Some shiver found ends sharp on fingers,

Here am I, oh Lord! Here am I so suddenly now.

Will and will not, some melody be end to end on line,

Pulling in the amorphous grey into what shapes of shadows –

Oh, this is it, all the grey matter of the bricks on the concrete –

Aha! Crawl and crawl to paisley of cracks –

Yonder then and now a primordial spread,

All silhouette drawing lines into leaves slowly,

And slowly in dance of a zephyr quiet all about the blue of the neighborhood.

Scratches merely the face of the bricks, she said, "I know. I know, my love."

What lullaby I seek in the bedroom tonight, my head, my head only,

There I kept the bolster in his room, I think.

Finds the hand the hem of the sheets to pull –

Puckering, rumpling, one, two, three,

The crease of the skin on my bones now –

The softness of threads art in damp touch of yarns sticking to the edges of the sticks in the cloth –

These the bones in the fabric now.

I sleep, yet the echo against my tympani –

A familiar, hers, hers, only hers the call –

Thy name mother, your name a soft echo in me.

Some hour from past smears from right to left,

Right to left, a world is juddered in me veins –

Alas! How terribly reduced to visceral volume inside,

Hark now how I talk about myself –

Am I, I am, am I, I am, I am, I am I say.

Fingertips – dot, drip, black spot to the color of my skin,

A patch somatic at the ends, then the cells dead on hands,

Making nails up and down the lengths of walking beyond palms of me;

Not the nails I ask for, but the hands I know.

His hands you know. Your hands I know.

Plexus of nerves, neurons as one, two, three, six so ‘tis barrage of touch on nape;

All fingers known from afore, where art thou touching me mother of mine?

These fingers known in sketch of thickness black, grey, almost white to some sudden purple violence –

His, his, now his only – tweak into curlicue,

Am I holding on to the mauve in your lilac mess.

May this, may that be, satin skin painting golden the circles into sequin of her threads,

Oozing, oozing out of trews now the diamond spheres of his coat’s wetness,

I squeeze my shoulders out against the weight;

Thighs alike, but I do, I do, let them in I say.

I let them in I say. She let him in I see, I, I, she, she let him in I see.

Midst touch, his and mine and his and mine,

A game of exchange until his the hand out on nakedness of a face,

A slap to be from skin of your cheeks on rear of mine –

Oh Mother, by the red dust on your skin will I know hands of you;

Kiln, a furnace catching fire outside –

Places far from me reducing on patches of bitumen,

Stony curlicue drawing lines haphazard from left to right all along the wayside of the roads,

Part by part an empty alleyway to walk away,

Floodlight ablaze yonder, is the tungsten on fire tonight.

I see, I see the sallow glow over there;

Through wet glass of mine the window pane, yet not so,

I find flow out of me what this the spherical burst of water spitting colors in drip, drip, drip of rain pouring the cityscape into the volume of my room.

On what this sense oozes and oozes through pores on my skin?

What bothers me at the seconds of the witches?

Oh Holy God! Here by the wooden mess that I stand damp in my own human matter,

Shadows and shadows surround me – on wet glass again the appearance of the figures,

When no palm of me hands on the window sill pulling at the glassy veins –

I keep away from the skylight;

Oh my God to me and only me for a bloody narcissist finds home nightly at hours like these,

An hour that is.

Do I repeat on ends of hour now, another hour then?

Do I repeat another hour now, another one of you then?

Easy is the ramble out of hands.

Do I cut red on what moves inside so hands keep the better of me on this the expanse that is the paper?

May I have you then? Do I, do I, do I so you will have me now.

Will you have me now?

Oh him, him again I see, he found the way home to you somehow.

I see, you have him now.

Alack! In black and white skin will I rot.

The concrete to descry, on dryness of the cement the dances of shadows indeed,

None in sight to see – this their sudden disappearance of the work of primordial black in smear over the grey matter when on low bitumen,

Here is in lattice held all threads of my human flesh in double helix.

When did I lose it? You are losing it, yet not so.

You are losing it, except that you aren’t.

You are, you are, you are, yet aren’t still.

Oh how do I say it, how I am losing you?

When this descent of blindness on retina still red inside?

Alas! I keep away from the door now.

Aperture atop a set of pins for my night clothes,

A negligee I hang without thought.

Will he pull it down, is he pulling me down?

Left palm on the eye, my right one an imprint on the tympani twice,

A thumb, and the little finger still a child’s pull at the hem by the end –

My favorite dirndl to wear on puckered surface.

Hers the nights off, metallic liquid melting down the lengths of fingers,

At the doorstep all spillage afore can the flowers be found on a vase still in body of soil –

Distant the doors now, here is the green cracking flakes out in a November night on iron rust of gridlock,

So mine the tips that pull at yours the gown nightly now.

A good night mother. A good night. Yours the only sweetness seeking a lament or two times,

Crying on dreams across the cornea thus, will I go blind on you.

A good night, so a good night mother.

I am home to you, I know.

Closed windows, I closed them.

One black beam carrying on string so invisible and wet in tandem in eyes for there at the end,

This the silver cut leaving stars to weep on glass, how do I end it, darling?

Chains and chains of stitches to move on, on wetness the slip of feet upfront the door again –

Thwack, thwack, thrash, hit the brown am I against the door jamb,

Now burgundy blood in rising damp of all lines running the left edge,

Mine the matter sticking to the bolts at the right.

All mahogany only to be, how do I leave you now?

Yours the rufous red to find on every patch of his the length of bones in you,

How will you, wonder I? How will you leave him now?

Danger in sirens heard, a mark I found on the walls.

Somewhat pale, somewhat auburn in hue –

I sang the color away with cries over ghosts in the room,

Are there ghosts in the room in swings of fringes I pulled out beyond nails could that be on my fingertips tonight also.

One shadow lurks, the other sweeping the floor on a swab of wooden planks.

Oh mother, they use my night dress to clean!

Defiling the rectangles by edges to say, screech, screech, squelch on viscous cerise,

So the squares I pull out of all shapes in me.

Oh how I talk now, this an infernal paradox, unless parlous irony be,

Dragging me back to square one.

I come back, back, back to you.

These cruel faces around me, white enamel on display with bodies black,

In them my silhouette hides.

I am safe in here, sucking at the emptiness of a mother’s womb who let out.

She, my mater let out, let him out, yet not so.

Oh, I lose her in me slowly and slowly.

So let me the third one, a he to say –

He rises from the grille of my bed in silver grey.

Mauve, sepia yellow, cerise red the hues how swift, how rash in motion caught –

I press my lashes to a crisp sound on cracks of skin until the skin of my cheeks found.

I found them, mother, from yours to mine, I found them.

Ah! up and down the skin presses, I go all the way home to you.

This a feeling of disgust in me, lumps of what air to tornado up, up, up my height of flatness from the edge,

When below the head, somewhere on the neck here and there thy hands trace alleys on the skin of your child –

Your daughter am I, oh your daughter am I.

Say my name in a lullaby, won’t you?

Crack, staccato split of yours the skin on face ripping my lips asunder,

Oh won’t you say my name, mother, in a lullaby now?

Red to carmine lines rendering rough the wetness off, off, off my vellum –

How these spherical dots undo the face of me on the length of your arms.

Crane’s head, I look at you again.

Oh, how I look at you still! –

Where my name in the air close to the ruby damage on blocks holding melt of enamel –

Yours, like yours the teeth I say.

There my name sticking to your teeth I say –

My name, my name mother, your teeth, yours the teeth.

Aha! In the closet I sought you.

I watch the neighborhood in pitch black shade.

A window not at all there, a wall is also missing in this build of stones and bricks.

Tangerine yet to be, how many times will I call out to this grey on tall figures?

Tired me eyne, waiting for the sonic boom of something like “goodnight my darling”.

Am I, am I waiting for you.

But the eyes away to the grey again,

For is it not he the color anymore, is the yellow coming over all quick, rash, brisk,

Terrible like the loss of you will be in no time.

See mother, here some yellow over this the lapse of the hour of the dead –

One, two, three, five, five, five drags down the metal away from the end on my clock of the same old hour…

From screen to how closely by my arms through the hands to the bones of you –

I will be away to you down the wet slides, almost, almost there into you, mum.

Wait, I wait these moments still.

I hark the knock on the door, a thwack of head,

Your head I know by the jingle of grandpa’s bangles on wrist, no sound prevails otherwise.

Quiet is the neighborhood in purlieus when an earthquake on this wooden flooring under me –

Oh mother!

Oh Mother! Am I hiding under the bed now.

Triangles and squares, then trapezium beside rhomboidal figures of plate,

My polygons of a broken Math make, your bracelet in sheen of the silver entered the dark of this space with me.

Ah! It pierced through my eyes.

A strident cut on arms, but from my mouth, I bleed,

I bleed the jaws out of me.

But the tongue, yet the tongue speaks what echoes of his the thwack, thwack,

To the squelch of yours the footprints like a child’s right outside the doorstep of my room –

Moving right, moving left, right and left to hands and feet pressing on the door,

What skeleton of you.

Some pieces of rectangle in paper from the scrapbooks, aha!

A delusion in me, are they bunting from confetti of your marriage flooring picked not so,

Hurled and carried in drift too hard from his hands –

These pieces under the weight of his feet when in Waltz with you a dance he danced,

On the wooden plank did he dance a dance with you, my mother to be, oh my mother now,

Is he throwing them on my floor so soon, so soon to say.

So step, step, pluck one arm off the bones thus that am I the mess green on brown flesh of a tree.

Fall, fall slowly down, like husk, dots and dots, like leaves, splinters of tendrils about the air like leaves,

Like leaves, I say, oh all these leaves causing some green disturbance here and there in me.

Oh! Will he, my man be? My father, what a father art thee?

Will from you be slow cataclysm – patch, patches, splash,

Oh, what a splash of all this spillage of yours the grey – human, human,

Like one complete complex human being from you, a man be?

Shelter will this space under the voile of my bed sheets my bodice forever,

And I will stay, I will stay right here – the ghosts taking up footsteps all over your feet on his –

Were thee dancing in thin air, dancing with thin air, all ghosts were thee, what a ghost am I, am I, am I, I see –

What ghosts we are.

Another orifice I tear anyway mother, look you this hole I tore apart on the calico blue of the bed linen,

So on the fingertips some turquoise does the ink flush through to the heart of me;

I cry bitterly on the ache of my knees, I scrape still to my nails ingrown,

Pushing the skin tightly inside, I push myself to the dado of the walls of this room looking for you.

Too long one strike of hand, a game was I playing in fancy of me, not fugitive to make.       

Look, mother! A patch of this dirty blue I tore,

Pulling stitches from the selvedge of the fabric,

In partial cloth, so grubby, a filthy tapestry,

Cared I not for the tapestry painting in carmine lines, all the bones of you.

Look, mother! Here, that I tore the sheet apart,

To the colors of my rainbow.

Shower upon breeze, the squeezing out in its azure still,

Gallons of the white flesh into my human matter again –

In here, in there, here and there, all the time.

Closed doors, cracks and cracks of each horizontal bar on the window,

That same window, I render the metal in metal to dwell –

I, in human skin, my feet crave the place of you.

A haunted house, an abattoir, a slaughterhouse,

In dead, dead cement, morbid even on the nerves of a cadaver

Underneath some old planks of this wood of a tree bearing red leaves,

A rose you say, a rose I say –

This a ball of cerise yarns bursting tissues red on walls,

Now in the height of the human viscera, in you staying the hosts,

All captives of lines and lines, parallel stitches pulling at the skin off my face,

My feet, the bitumen find still in this visceral volume of you,

This mess of tissues in you.

All those shadows stepping, spitting on me,

Yet the chisel a boon – they split,

Under the last sheen of a dying moon,

Oh, they split now on the left, then on the right of the squares,

Ripping off grey beams into planar edges,

Like a length meeting the height of squares, finding volume black,

I, I pull so tight on the dryness of the silver dust,

Oozes, oozes out into lights of neon war of colors in me,

My matter into wetness of the watercolors, in drip, drip, drip,

Off a planar mélange of skin and bones making this my face –

Some grey, some tangerine, to the clementine orange,

Until 'tis the cerulean mild to the rorqual flesh,

From the deep blue waters of a vellum,

My animal parchment swathing bones slowly and slowly again,

Until it's the primordial black to the cosmic quiet of the chaos within –

Oh, how I see the moon split lines into the shape of me on the center of the concrete.

Road after road did she call for, will I be away to her;

Alley nine, backwater avenue, loss of this room,

Will I, will I inside the bitumen find,

I inside this lane, in mahogany mess find the linear flow of the lines,

Wetting me down the length of me – aha!

I, oh how I cry all the way home to the bones of you.

You almost did, mother. A little beyond the outskirts does my heart sojourn.

Shoes soft, I run to tear the sole out;

My negligee no more on the body, under this voile light,

In naked skin am I – I know.

I know in naked skin am I – how reduces the enamel of blocks erasing teeth on jaws,

So a bird to catch, the feathers jutting out of his gums like soft teeth on you –

Ah! In this bare nakedness of the body that is me,

A child wiping my footsteps from you.

Ay, from you now, from you I say.

On your name, the shriek, edges of my throat, Ma I tell you now –

I am running away from you.