Follow the sound of footsteps into my house
….skeletal undulating ceramic wrought iron algae seashell ossein….
This house is ribbed. It has the coolness of a hollow whale and even in scorching summer, I stay aware. The house might be dead now, but it was alive before, if you sense the difference.
Everyone else is dead. I swim upwards through degrees of blue with my breakfast of marmalade and crackers.
Through the house’s gills, I can feel your breath in all rooms, hotter than the sun, calling me for lust or prayer.
Days go by. I wonder why it is that you chose me, half Spanish half English spinster, to live with. Do all suns come to die in apartments, hiding their supernova terror from the world?
No matter how many doors I open, you’re never there. Attentive reptile, you crawl away before I can reach you, so I drag my old feet from room to room, with a shaking tea cup in my hand. Chamomile. I imagine you are a blonde god. I would’ve liked a blonde son, I think, fruit of kisses and sheets. Oh well.
pictures of Casa Batllo in Barcelona
erintothemax Said:
on July 5, 2008 at 3:46 pm
Haunting.