Arlene Ang

Long Long Ago

Fast forward from aardvark to Aaron: his reflection on the soap dish (stainless) resembled a coal mine. It wasn't exactly stone age yet. Only forty-two women inside the pit. Asleep. Like some anatomical structure. Blood was the flat line on the screen. It was cold. He held air-dried lizards in his mouth. His dear. Recently. Late wife. Predators crippled the children early. Thirst sloshed. The flies were green-backed, opaque where it hurt. Soft squish. This rotten fruit. Footsteps in the open air. He counted ghosts. One to fifty-six. There were many odd shapes caught in the pillowcases. This head of moose. Yes, long long ago. There was no fire. He devoured everything raw.

Dreams of some bad life

The first hour always focused on insecurity of the domestic type. From the sixth onwards, tension slurred; the shower or another home appliance broke causing 49 dream years inside a chicken breast.

Rachmaninov skipped again and again on that note where the cat dug its claws.

Dwindling perspective: that diagonal line between a severe cough and the Seattle weather, two fir trees slighter smaller than the gingerbread man in tweeds, that cloud in the horizon who doesn't reply to the codename, Charlie.

Misinformation on toiletry hygiene (at 59 per word): my lucky color is sparkling graphite.

Table manners and acquired-decency syndrome evolved into a full-blown questionnaire on the amount of filth in D's autobiographical apartment.

Under the magnolia, an old sandbox with the paper towels (slightly oiled).

The equestrian next door wanted to view my Frasconi lithographs. He arrived up to the level of my right breast (slightly lower than the left). He kept repeating how much he liked the patchouli of me.

Potato chips on the hearth, bones of Esmeralda. The popcorn, unlabeled.

All that is now in the past --
together with embroidered cushions,
consideration of the words: primitive,
mutant, golliwog and toothpaste.

Ultimate Hate Letters

After pages of consonants without vowels,
you'd think someone would begin to notice the correct use
of apostrophes. Ludwig, for one, autographed
a grammar book at my expense. For a long time,
I mistook him for a roomful of contraptions, odd socks,
flying objects that filled like hot-water bottles.
I wanted all the E's no money could buy.
I wanted him to think he could dip me low for a kiss.
I wanted something candlelit, with barbed wires.
He wasn't impressed when I showed him
what made me tick like a nailcutter. I still read
newspaper articles with the soft chirp
of a pleasure-seeker using the other side of bed.
Sometimes I fumble with my dress zip thinking of M
who fornicated in the park with K, H, P, D and S.
Sometimes the whole alphabet would fit on my palm.
Sometimes my brain clicks softly after the door closes.

What ever happened to incidence

Throughout the evolution of torment, I repeated breathtaking at least 2,347 times when asked about my opinion on borborygmic encounters of the bacterial type.

Wittgenstein understood rhyme (eyes/ lies). Here, at the bottom of his glass unicorn, the inventory becomes murky, like Kool-Aid.

For years, we planned to visit Halcyon. We plotted secret castle doors on gypsy scarves. We poked holes on DNA theories with lamb chops.

The cult film relied on the illusion that all men popped from corn: the crimson ones cost God his bad reputation among rainbows.

I'm in the process of recycling my abilities as admirer, perhaps turn into beer mist hanging from Hans' mustache, drink seraphic.

After three straight sonnets, I still couldn't couldn't use the word indifference to fit the occasion -- festive, with harps, some misrepresented pedestals.

This azure loincloth stain cliches around wax museum figures, like my hand (detachable) in the cookie jar.

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