attic

the parasites
ate through my eyes
i was breathing,
when i was living.
in the attic.
now dusty hair
floats down between the floorboards.
forgotten cups of tea
circle the paint-smudged arm-chair.
a moth-eaten patchwork quilt
covers my aging body.
blurred photographs rest on the windowsills.
the net curtains draped in
the flies
their rigor mortis dreams.

curl up in the dust with me, lover
breathe the filthy air.
make dirt-angels with our fingertips...
they'll find us in the attic
at the top of the creaking stairs.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

Ah, but at some point we are all dolls, aren't we? Our best and prettiest-painted selves? There is a "come live me with and be my love" air to this, but it isn't an ethereal notion--the lovers are exhorted to "curl up in the dust" and "breathe the filthy air" with each other, and to make "dust angels". That being said, it doesn't have the feel of being gritty or anti-romantic, either; it is a real-world, flesh-and-blood love. In any case, I heartily second the learned Ed on the idea that this is fantastic writing.

[Ed Hart]

fantastic...you can sure reach around corners with that sparkling mind of yours...