Felicia Tapestry

God's honest truth, her name was Felicia Tapestry.

Her fourth great grandfather was an impoverished thread bare curtain merchant. Since he came from a family which was known for this, the other children called him a serial drapist behind his back.

I'd rather not go into their various deaths. I suspect they also melted ants with magnifying lenses.

I'm a Calvinist. They deserved it.

But I digress...

Her name was Felicia Tapestry.

It was a hot sweaty day, a day I'd rather remember. The meat in the broken down freezer had already melted and smelt of death. The blood had leaked onto my kitchen floor and was surprisingly hard to clean up. Different bloods melt at different temperatures.

That was helpful advice going forward.

Tapestries are such beautiful weaves, interspersed with threads from every hue. Sometimes from simple cotton, sometimes from elegant silk. I prefer raw fabrics rough hewn, like Scottish clothing no one likes to wear, except to avoid freezing to death or starvation.

She was wicked cute, but in that dark serial killer way we all love. You know, like Christina Ricci like, except worse.

She wore her gown with pride, flowing across the floor, glorious in all its splendor. We each called each other fascinating. Yeah, it was THAT kinda romance.

The frame of reference of our romance framed us in ways we dare not share with others. After all, her name was Felicia Tapestry, and she was a death shroud comforting me with hugs. I immediately recognized that she had inherited the realm in her family line, filtering the flinty lilt of hints of bitter shrouds, hovering over us, against the light. Yet the darkness comforts us so. It comforts us so.

Nightmare

Muck and Mire
rarely inspire
except to remind us
of the mud we all share.

Trudging slowly
grindingly so
fighting the elements
like a dream nightmare.

Running but still
paralyzed and flinching
thinking you're inching
towards the eternal
unattainable.

Constantly grasping
but never attaining
gripping yet tight lipped
silently impotent.

Dreamlike maze
never escaping
waiting to awake
amazed
but sadly never surprised.

Approaching 20 Years

I still remember your hair
as you leaned your head
into my shoulder

The smell of your shampoo

Your hair
It was soft and silky
almost black in color

You were fragrant
with wildly beautiful
eyes
filled with darkness

Faint hints
of what lurked
behind the curtains
of those eyes
and lips

We each lived
in each other's
shadows

Fine Print

Microscopic inscriptions
listening in
to
fine print
signed
into law
by my
own blood

Signed in blood today
and every day

Sign your life away

Signed in blood today
and every day

Legalese
a language
its own
inexplainable

Fucked by lawyers
by nary a lick of
the tongue

Linguistic tricks
sticking it to
us all
by those far too
well paid
to get laid for free

After all
it's all part
of
the fine print.