Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Jist

“Allure,”
a whim implied.

“Beneath its teeth, allure,”
an aside of a whim,
“and beaks.”

Muttering bone,
swiveling muttered
to brazen boys,
“The vulture
is latent beneath…”

“…beneath the bone
and teeth.”

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From These to There

Tears fall, lacking.
His fall,
the tears clear
as past
compresses vision.
Caressed compression of
her back in time.
Transgressions without time.
And today,
his knife’s suspicions —
fingering caresses
in her pictures,
not his pictures—
Suspicious.
Never laughter.
Pictures on the ground.

Far From These Things

Beholden,
she backs away
till the stars
compress around
his vision.
Pictures throw themselves
to the ground,
or hang
in suspicious effigy.
A knife’s edge
tears and falls away
with Time’s division.
His aria fails, expression in
flute fingering caresses,
to recall
the sound of her steps
or the sense of her shape
draped in darkness.