Mad and Stormy and Cackly

I should have suspected that reading dark and delicious poesy to March was not the best of ideas. I mean, I was certain that a month stuck between the nippiness of winter and the not-yet-bloomy spring would yearn for dark and spooky. Well, I was wrong and then some… the moment I read T.S. Eliot’s
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain”
March smirked creepily and began storming like crazy. I saw little sense in arguing with a month known for its madness, so… I slipped into something warm (about 13 layers, since I’m a complete coward when it comes to cold weather) and accompanied my Piano Man on a walk.

Can you see him in the darkness of my eyes, keeping me warm?

We were out for about an hour. This is a big deal for me. If you’ve been following my health bitching saga, you already know that this is my first time playing in the cold since the winter of 2013… when my lazy immune system rebelled and decided that keeping me warm was too much work to bother with. Today, um… yesterday, I guess, we made stag snow angels… and cackled in the woods like the deliciously terrifying maniac we can be.

I’ve never cared much for snow. My sexy Caribbean blood doesn’t mix well with the cold. But 5 years kept from jumping wildly all over the fluffy stuff left me longing for half-frozen toes (I could promptly defrost in a hot bath). Also, I think bare branches look freaking pretty dressed in the last of winter.

I should find some bright verses to appease March. Some Swinburne? “March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite…” Um, mayhap not Swinburne *cough*.

Repressed Desires Grow Bitter on the Tongue

If you let them ink you to their liking, turn you into what they believe you should be, they will rip my heart out of your chest and watch us scream… Bare your teeth, my Love. Tell them the dark, dark, dark spot in your mind (the one normalcy can’t touch without dying or falling or changing for the better) belongs to me. Remind them that in ink, I am tenderness and terror.

You can lie to them. But between you and me, Love, and the wild wonders my flesh knows of your bones, masks will not stand true. I can still feel you (whispering old wants, weaving new stories) in me. Silence is not a natural environment for love or lust. I can’t delight in us, if you won’t talk to me—

scream your want into my skin, repressed desires grow bitter on the tongue.

the visual poetry

the wee notes…
– I borrowed a partial phrase from my favorite quote, out of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield: “Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.” Seriously, they do you… with chainsaws… and mad ravens.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

A Hugely Important Memo to Mrs. Gilson’s Day Nursery School Staff

Secretaries must wear stockings in flesh tones that please a gentleman of wealth. Ladies will dress in leather pantsuits, accessorized with inner-thigh holsters. Men will carry an assault rifle and their gods-given handgun (one for teaching, one for fun).

fresh news and old jokes
yell to all, “We aren’t equal!”
but the world sees naught

 

the wee notes…
– I was enjoying My Crowd: The Original Addams Family and Other Ghoulish Creatures, in an effort to convince my brain that all the changes in the weather aren’t hell on our sexy flesh and bones, when I ran into the cartoon above, and thought, Unholy crap clowns riding a sickly orange Segway! Charles Addams could draw the damned future. Then, this slightly disturbing haibun was born.
– linked to Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.