ten songs for children no.2

A conversation between two people. Half written in reality by Anca. Thanks, Anca. Thanca.

She said
.
“i don’t like hot, but once it’s done
the bread can be windy
watery brain..
mine is woozy
as for the flowers, the little blue ones,
forget-me-nots?”
.
He said
.
“Forget-me-nots indeed.
I used to paint them on my wrists.”
.
She said
.
“wrists. had to look them up.
water lillies in the sink, mushrooms under the bed,
sun-flowers in the closet, and a cypress in your head.”
.
He said
.
“No, the tide
Is far too wide.”
.
She said
.
“what to do if it repeats?
i thought i’d keep it to myself, but the mind kept slipping, and sleeping,
and sh..
oh dear..
this is doom! and there’s no viking in the house..”
.
He said
.
“I like that. I like that a lot. I like it very much.
Slip, slip, slip.”
.
She said
.
“such words like
love and like make me hazy
since, quite often,
they may only make me lazy
ber-lin.”
.
He said
.
“And words like dust
And joust and just
Can only pierce
Sleep for…
By us I mean
Not us,
Just that between
The borderlands
A man lifts sand
For laziness
Ber-lin.
Mad-rid
Riddance, home, down.”
.
She said
.
“forget – me – knots
i’m stuck
for sleep? ok. if i have to. yet i’m mad as hell.
no passport at the borders.
no copy-cats in those hats.”
.
He said
.
“stamp your hand
fourteen thousand tons of
Wouldn’t push you
To sleep, it is sinking
And Anca-kelp still writes
Her little-death
The hair is growing, whether
You notice it or not.
No nails at these gates, man.”
.
She said
.
“snails?
w8!
i’m confused.”
.
He said
.
“Confusion is a cockroach trapped inside a travelling balloon.”
.
She said
.
“what did u find down there?
kelp? my mouth is full of sand now. i try to say i love it, too!
Cock-roach comes from Iowa and likes to fish for dots with it’s shank in the snow. Or was it from somewhere else?
My words are walking on yer toes.”
.
He said
.
“No, you are absolutely right.
My toes lap up their bruises.
Your words leave little maps behind.
Your mouth’s sand catches.”
.
She said
.
“a cup of fresh air in this bucket of sand-storm of mine.
don’t wanna be right, nor wrong, toes lapping-up i like, as for the bruises i can only say: pup.
i can be easily tracked down. maps. tzk tzk. abso-fuckin-totally-lutely. what else was there? goood.. cic-cic-cic.
space is the place.”
.
They said goodnight.

.

They said goodnight.

.

Suddenly, we are old.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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