Kafka’s Reincarnated as a Wasp

Pink Bedroom (Still Life At Night)

Kafka’s reincarnated as a wasp and
he’s playing squash against my window pane;
a car horn keeps beeping its
repetitive tune in mourning

the duke of Marlborough’s barricaded
It’s wide music variety
Once catered
the emotionally stunted

The Saturdays reliant
on fosters tops to embellish
their champagne supernova
in mr bright side

It now sits there
like a pound shop Alcatraz

I want to eat the wasp
and pelt the car with water balloons
Reopen the duke of Marlborough
and host the ghost of John Prine

the clock strikes 11
And I’ve gone back to bed

wish I was that seagull
perched on the roof
of the off license
pecking at Gods bread.

 

Artwork by Richard Tuschman

Waiting

The whipping sound of the rotating fan above him, landed inside his ear. The sound echoed throughout his body and everything became still, except his gaze, which pointed towards his cellphone. As his phone vibrated, so did the table and then his lower arm, and the echo produced by the fan in his chamber-like-body ceased to exist. The sound of the local bar was silenced by a pair of words a friend of his had sent.

———not ——physically
but insectly
making ———sounds
——————-tempor
——————————ary
and all but
——–one important.
wings
but not physically.
Instead, similar to the
effects of ————yellow
fever ——physically
delirious
on the taste of
three ——–words
blue —–and ——cold.

His head was fathoms deep within his goose-feathered pillow. His back, fully stretched on his bed with a small rectangular piece of technology next to him. A rectangular piece, through which his eyes were first transported into a small world and then everything else. Another couple of words were sent to him.

a —-pieceof —–lackless
light
—–and its ability
——-to float
and —–then —–sink
and —–then —–crash.
a thought
——–small
a feeling
——–big
like —–a ——-match
before being lit
and ——then there is fire
and —–then there is the
match again
———different, but still
———a match.
The ground was soggy and the air was still. Standing in place, he felt light; the weight he had before had not made it through. He was waiting for something to happen so he stood still and observed. The horizon was purple and blue and it seemed to be flat and finite. He continued to wait. Impatience drove him to movement, something small, like a step. He lifted his heel and planted it a few centimeters away, but the reaction of the space was not all that positive. The horizon was indeed flat and it was moving closer to him. His blood rushed again as the phone vibrated and small drops of rain, warm, fell upon his scalp.

a —-pyramidal —–foot
with the
tip pointed downward
——breaking slowly
till its base and unaccepting
of —-its own fate of
eventual baselessness.
then ———a
heat ——–wave
———against the eyes, ears,
———mouth into the insides
———and then to the top
————–of the
—–head ——leading ——-the
baseless feet to leave the
ground
and
float,
up
into
the
clouds, then sky, then
out of the
atmosphere,
then into space,
and
—–then into no space.

As he floated, he found himself floating back to his window. His bed was still flat, but he could no longer stretch his back on it. He was instead hunched over with his shoulders rolled down. He was pressing against his phone. His thumbs were shaking with excitement, so he shakenly waited.

 

 

Artwork by Tarsila, “A Lua”