Flocks of Moxen

Flocks of moxen walking down the trees, stepping gruntily in qwertious flow. Verily, their many-colored aptitudes speak for themselves, dundering upon such silent silks. On stilts we walk, haggard and token. Tales of folken wilderness vining upon every nestled stump. Entwined of rare metals, stringing along. A simple melody of a pond, and a quest in a frond.
Along such banks walked we, splishing the mud-haven. Cravenly entwistling the marshes of old. Swampy cattails arose from a zone. Walking we went, soaked to the bone. Fishing for zish, we stopped for a bit.
We spoke of subterranean humanoid puzzles, magically toasting the south-eastern border’s negative-seven-hundred-twelfth birthday. Burrowing in the dirt to get out of the heat, we caught the rare scent of moxen, an olfactory treat. Bounding over the marshy deserts by air and by spoon, a flock of moxen was spinning a cocoon. Snorting as they stamped, and grunting as they went, heartily nodding in gentle agreements as their spinnerets leapt, their horned feet and hoofed heads tread lightly on the wheat. Swishing tails of forgotten worlds, one luminous moxen neighed, mooed, and sang in a brilliant multiphonic display. It sang in tones rarely heard by the ears, in fact, I have heard it only once in ten thousand years.
Flocks of moxen walking up the trees, singing as they go, in all thirteen keys.

Bartholomew, an eclectic elf, high on dandelion wine and sugar-plum snooters, fancied he'd pry a sprig from the Elderbush. But unawares to spry Barty, a mulldrifter manticore was huffing about in his abode in a nearby water-lilly, angrily sulking, pevish at his loss of a game of chinese checkers. Leering through the fog, the manticore spyed shameless Barty, who was trying his best to break off a branch. "Codswollop! Humperdink!" Barty hiccuped feverishly in frustration, his cheeks turning strawberry red with strain. The manticore, trundling out of his lilly-bloom, spread his teeth like a fan, licked his lips, and shot into the air. Then suddenly downward he spiraled, whirligiggling and shrieking, so rapidly that Barty, loopily absorbed in his mind-numbing foolery, barely had time to react. He dodged slightly to the side (a moment too late), and saw at the instant before darkness, the periwinkle smile of cloud outlined in shimmer, and then plummeted beneath the surface of the loch.

Birds, Fish-Snake and Scarecrow

Birds, Fish-Snake and Scarecrow by I Am Bells

Email Notification for Comments

Please give me your email address if you would like to be notified of comments.

Thanks!

Emily

tumor and the wolf

fished wolf
west prowling but the morning
such a fad
passed the dry-cut belt
the first, hard mother
sees her child cut
wall threw the window and
the wolf shall to the wolf sty
all dying to drive
the van
hard the sum win
fondling her child and sing: cut new
and the Wolf shod cowl kills him.
to wolf,
hang these words
want him
gong with clad and hungry
sad or thoughtless

toad the frog

drinking place, trod bard
frogs and crashed
them ditch the mother
coming and messing her suns
nard his brothers
what had bum him
dad, dry mother
flay in new jest
very best with fray
grit fetched the place
crashed in ditch with his clan
alto frog puffing herself
the best west big
that nard smotherer
puff self sad snob
and knit angry
fray weld sir
sir burst then successfully
mitt the hens that monster

missal things can’t heap ten and try

Mystery MEat: Vessel

All I had to do was look inside myself there were objects clustered paper wads plastic sheets covering the rim of my gut. I was lost in frequent torque, sliding was permitted until there was only one sensory device remaining. Pushed around.

In the evenings my objects are removed (I breathe for a time), my stomach itself detaches and finds its way outside (I can see it flutter off as though possessed). Objects are always around me jostling ignorant coiling and springing. All movement is unattended. Opening, always, and closing on concurrent frequencies with the attitude of these creatures, looking and pressing I can barely see them, ghosts perhaps.

In my depths I found an emptiness I had not expected in my throat, (then again, I have always confused my sections, sometimes, my head is my base, my handles are my core, my gut is my shoulder). Temporality meant becoming: this was not allowed for me.

I despised rules and they me. I needed the rules to place myself where I needed to be and when I got around them I’d end up leaning off against some shattered souls of brick imprint in false letters sloping angularly. This was how the crack developed that leads me inside myself.

(Suddenly I am drifting again; it is now allowed.)

Having opened only slightly, (I considered it a great sin to indulge in the fissure), leaking was a reality for me, liquids forever spilling out rushing spontaneously into further frothing about the edges of the spiraling fur dragging backwards over the red haired plastics resting near the loving windows with hinges that screamed love proclamations to each and every notch. I died laughing, I suppose.

That sensual moment of self-exploration brought voids eons dispersed (I am still surprised I am still alive!) latching onto some permanent memory contortion of fantasy: gliding fairies, no rules, no ghosts, the laughter and sharp corners of rock.

I am erotically myself, pulling my own bowels forth, and I am sure they are real, filled to their edges as they often have been—yet, my objects remain a more permanent memory, shifting my weight, the pain a reminder of being.