See how the wooden horse enters the scene–
on a silent dolly from stage right it gallops
Do you fancy Montague or Capulet
The show goes on, ending when the star-crossed lovers die
Isn’t that beautiful, how the royal velvet curtains cradle the set
All hand-stitched by Venetian cobblers, who were bored out of their minds–
stringing mandolins with leather shoestrings
The stiff horse has seen better days
Its low-budget cedar ass is splintering
Someone hiding in the pit had to be mindful of costs
The wooden equine doesn’t even belong on this set
The driver missed his cue for Cinderella this morning
In her pink world, no one commits suicide–
except maybe the mice, upon learning they are no longer stallions–
and that their playhouse curtains are a machine-stitched polyblend
this character sketch reminds me of an ornery Shakespearean spirit, I couldn’t tell you why
When a snake is born with two heads, the heads try eating each other. This makes perfect sense. And it doesn’t for the obvious reasons. She wonders long and hard about her snakes. She muses over the tangled loiterers in her gut. Those reptilian personas, wanderers all, who tear at her. Maybe given the chance they’ll swallow each other and pass without issue. The battles in her mind she grows weary of. Good and well as she appears on the outside, she is not.
She wants to go back. Return to the way it was, to the way it had been before things got mucked up. There is no vacuum to suck up thoughts thick as peanut butter. She wishes Einstein manifested on the other side of her lunch plate. He might solve her dilemma, ease her burdens. The frolicky photo, poster-sized on her wall–Al’s brilliance with flicking tongue and shock-white upending hair allows her to entertain the possibility of solutions. All but love. Einstein labored there too, not so much peanut butter as grape jelly–he craved sweet outside of his mad naked brain. What was Einstein like in bed?
Melancholy sticks in her throat. Why does it always have to reach a point that forces change? Hedges a path against one’s spinning wheels. She wants the dreaming. And yes, the other carefully cultivated fantasy sequences. He is a specter now like all the others she once loved but couldn’t get back. Return them to her gut, let them gnaw a hole for her thirsting heart to collapse out of.
Was Sir Francis Bacon behind Shakespeare? Maybe. Maybe Shakespeare had more than one head, many opposing forces sword thrusting in his belly. There is no easy way around staring in a mirror with many eyes and seeing one face. She knows all too well the things sliding around her heart. If she had never known him, her snakes might have remained settled for a time. Mice take a long time to digest. But the two-headed snake is roaming. It cannot survive this way.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” –Oscar Wilde
snake/mouse art created last year for an illustrated project-thank you