Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

The Twist

Locked myself out of my office on a day when all those with master keys are out at other commitments.

So, over the drop ceiling I go.

Feeling nostalgia and also faint premonitions of lockjaw from sliding over the drywall and between the posts.1

  1. No, I’ll stick with post. My followers would find something clever to say if I used the other name. 

Fresh Ground

Particulates slip in,
flakes scratch
and bleed fresh,
needling your need
till you curse its
intimate ignorance.
They twist you
convicted, allaying
a braided
restraint upturned,
to run unleashed.


She’s Miss Aligned,
fur seams tressed,
her claims stress
four trays fresh
hors d’oeuvres
in foyer forays.

The clock on the
counter so wise
with her vices:
the cramped,
quilting prizes
and gearshift

When she gets
high it’s safe-
pole vaults
in clock counter
assaults right
down to the mats.