Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


It fell
cracking columns,
plinths shifted
free of place.
Backing ‘round corners,
sailing dry straits,
strafing mazes.
You left me turning
left at the wall.
Cheekbones raking earth,
eyes averse,
fingers searching
for a center,
for worth.

In wintertime we burn them,” he said, pointing to a round metal stove. “This one has eaten many pianos.

For More Pianos, Last Note Is Thud in the Dump – NYTimes.com

  • Carl Demler, Owner of Beethoven’s Pianos, New York, NY

via Olga Nunes

Love this quote. Sounds like something from a creepy children’s book…


Fresh craters give
our raving weight.
Regret appended
by the state.
Flesh and
seed and core
and stem.
As fashion breaks,
the forge begins.
comrades prate.
Offense remains
for siblings sake.

Fevered Muse

glee speaking.
Lost and loss,
stammer and
gloss surveyed
— sanity tossed.
Let’s play.
Et tu, Mon?
Its truest sense
weighed and won
with a phrase.


Dreams lace
through forking fingers.
Paths of joy
distorting features.

Swinging stammers.



Gloss surveyed


The stars part,
a morn stillborn,
sea-sparked driftwood bright.

A tangle of grain
with well-worn weight,
and strains of ancient blights.

Quilting the shores,
they slumber the deep
abhorred, they fade from sight.

To give people pleasure in the things they must perforce use, that is one great office of decoration; to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce make, that is the other use of it.

Does not our subject look important enough now? I say that without these arts, our rest would be vacant and uninteresting, our labour mere endurance, mere wearing away of body and mind.

Laden Autumn here I stand
Worn of heart, and weak of hand:
Nought but rest seems good to me,
Speak the word that sets me free.

Autumn by William Morris

A Summon (Rappel)

A portrait
of faces,
lace, traits and
latent forays

She swayed like
a continent.

He brayed with
fierce confidence.

They fell as
they tasted
the mist
in heaven’s hold.

‘Twined fingers
and prayed
for impact.


“We’ve settled
for sentiment.”
There, I’ve said it.
Once taken
for granite,
we’ve morphed
into something meta.