Nowell Joshua Wright
A stony scaffolding seems to unfold and, unfolding, it holds in its bosom a granulated nightscape peppered ever so sparsely with ashen bodies that seem to float like bits float in the water in a plugged sink. A sprig of parsley was hung today in the kitchen of the morning. Are the people you knew when your eyes were meeting the rising sun the same? The boots you wore whan you called them by name are lost. Little broken branches, like little finger bones, shiver in slivers of lunar light like thoroughly throttled paring knives. A scatty dog, for a game, growls at the visage of a boggled rat. Blue once splayed through panes of glass framed in frost as powdery snow sifted upon a silent night. The famished confusion arises when the vittles are few. Three wooden camels lie like butchered camels on the ground. A star fell through the white canvass. A dented bell fell. A stained angel fell. A half-melted candle fell. Down, down, down the well, gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Radio transmissions, impossible to place, waver in the four corners of the air. A bare-headed and badly bearded priest wanders through a wilderness wherein a thousand or more ravenous beasts howl and titter and tear his fallen collar to pieces. A rubber ball that seems like an eyeball mimics the partially obscured moon.
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The fidgety witch from the forbidden crannies of the frozen swamp that are demarcated by signs which nobody can understand and which nobody dares to cross extends through the threshold of the kitchen wherein a feast is in its final preparations her hand with coins nestled in the violently wrinkled pocket of her palm and with brittle yellow fingernails rips from the uncooked goose a chunk of meat and she chews and she tickles your chin when you sleep. That is why
