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Fairy Dream

The sun was three oaks high when Little Fairy
Woke up from her delightful little dreams
And moved her thigh covered in crushed red berry
Ardently being licked up by morning beams.

“Who would the daddy be this time, I wonder?”
She mumbled with a careless sleepy smile.
It takes a journey through some hell and thunder
To dream your future husband, fairy style.

It was a bear. He took her to his deadfall.
His iron hair under her digging nails.
His only tear, the dome where crippled bats crawl
And spiders cry, and swallows eat their tails.

It was a faun, you know, blue-blooded satyr.
You’ve seen him; he craves fairies day and night.
One low-pitched moan is all it takes to bait her,
Our poor lil hopelessly loveseeking sprite.

It was an angel, dressed in black like demon,
Emerging from a quiet misty lake.
– It wasn’t mist, but swans.
– Not swans. Drowned women.
They bathed him in their love, all his to take.

The crying bear, half-man in his repentance,
The shadowless and shameless furry faun,
The angel shackled in his earthly sentence –
All gone and vanished at the crack of dawn.

When faes give birth, you see, it’s fairly natural
For cyclons of both worlds to get mixed up.
From deepest dens of earth that smell like petrol
Red berries grow.
Bad berries grow.
Sad fairies dream.
Dead fairies sing.
They never stop.

Спустя ровно 2 года минус 10 дней после написания – а писалось это, как вы поняли, в день, когда по бедру течет сок красных ягод, – я читаю у Д. Андреева вот что:
“… своеобразное психоизлучение масс… опускается сквозь земную кору… и проступает в виде вязкой красной росы… Игвы собирают ее для уицраоров – в этом и состоит их главная обязанность по отношению к ним, – а остатками лакомятся сами… Весьма возможно, что я упрощаю или не вполне правильно излагаю механизм этого процесса; но суть его…”

Вполне возможно, что я не всегда понимаю суть того, что я пишу, но излагаю, видимо, иногда, верно. Повод ли это для радости – другой вопрос.

Status Quo

Sketched with a pencil, trees are keeping guard
For my enchan…(scratch that) surrendered castle.
Under the bridge rests thick and darkened lard
Unfit to be a carrier to a vessel.

It’s been a while indeed since dragonflies
And sprightly fish disturbed the frigid water.
The anchored heron’s looking down at skies
Right at that spot where wind of change has brought her.

I’m rushing home through early dampish haze
In lustful seething act with dying ember.
The doorstep smells like coffee and always;
And lanterns smell like light and like December.

There’s still so much I need to do before
I give into the overrated bliss fuss
While seemingly maintaining status quo.
My son is almost nine. It’s almost Christmas.