october rules of conduct
1
paint a picture without using browns.
capture the past splendour of cornfields,
echoes of combines, the stutter of tractors,
sunflowers fading in the arms of clear days.
2
make a kite of bamboo, silk in primary colours,
a soft tail that caresses barren branches,
comforts them with whispers of spring.
3
never smother a fire. sparking a new one
gets harder by the hour as leaves curl up
in the gutter, wet and wounded, pages
of your diary are sodden with ink.
4
do not clip raven wings, their blackness
will soothe your eyes once snow has come
and the sky is the colour of spilled milk.
5
do not rest your head on a pin-cushion.
the sharpest needle will pierce your dreams,
drag scarlet threads across the madness,
stitch an eye, a grimace, a lacerated heart.
6
set aside all five euro notes. steel-grey
classicism will calm you once the gales
of november rattle your heartstrings.
7
prepare for samhain. set candles
in all windows, have soul cakes ready
to feed the year’s departed when the veil
between the worlds is whisked away.
cobalt (co)
the story of blue wednesdays and a three-quarter moon
the sky is raining notes from a twisted cello. all arrows point towards closing time.
wind is flying faceless kites, anchors trailing. the sea spills gossip on a barren beach:
goblins have stolen the silver, placed it on the ghost woman’s lap. her face is still
a mask — all eyes, no cheekbones — but she tinkles now, finally forgetting the sound
of accordions. once every crotchet, she stirs. before the fire in tree crowns fizzles out,
she listens to a red spider on the wall, braids his three missing legs into a tender plait.
outside the long shadows of october, a brown man coughs at her feet. everybody
pretends that his eyebrows are not the shape of egyptian snakes. his first name is rutherford, he takes orders and is fluent in lies. he has grown mittens in reverence
of winter, who hangs head-first above the plains, spout dilated, belly full of sheep:
soon they will conquer the horizon, swallow all the cobalt hung between the stars.
kobalt (co)
die geschichte von blauen mittwochen und einem dreiviertelmond
der himmel regnet noten aus einem krummen cello. alle pfeile zeigen auf sperrstunde.
der wind trägt drachen ohne gesicht, anker schleifen. das meer gießt klatsch auf einen öden strand:
kobolde haben das silber gestohlen, in den schoß der geisterfrau gelegt. ihr gesicht ist noch immer
eine maske – nur augen, keine wangenknochen – doch sie klimpert jetzt, vergisst endlich den klang
von ziehharmonikas. alle viertelnoten bewegt sie sich. bevor das feuer in den baumkronen erlischt,
lauscht sie einer roten spinne an der wand, flechtet die fehlenden beine zu einem zarten zopf.
zu ihren füßen hustet ein brauner mann am rand langer oktoberschatten. jeder
tut, als hätten seine augenbrauen nicht die form ägyptischer schlangen. sein vorname ist
rutherford, er führt befehle aus und lügt fließend. ihm sind fäustlinge gewachsen, aus ehrfurcht
vor dem winter, der kopfüber auf das flachland hängt, schnabel geweitet, bauch voller schafe:
bald erobern sie den horizont, verschlucken alles kobalt, das zwischen den sternen hängt.
inspired by: Joan Miró, Dutch Interior II
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