Deep down in a smiling bucket swimming clouds.
If it was up to me this house would be almost
seven hundred years old and more than thirteen
kilometres tall.
I would sit in a rocking
chair, creaking along with an out-of-tune piano
and an orchestrion that always tricks me with
ever-changing tempo
I'd be able to walk in
the ceiling. I would eat nebula for supper. I
would wear a necklace made of strung
hailstones.
The well outside would be an
eye that stares itself blind at the moon. The
water would sob. There would be two winds
moaning.
The shadows would converge when
the clock struck twenty-five.
Oh how I wish
I could walk about on the walls. And how I wish
there were more hours in a night:
When I
can't wish for more - the vision of scarabees
crackling mandrake roots in soil breathing ghosts
of worms and scolopendras
haunting you with
their fumes of horror till your soul tears your
body apart and escapes
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