Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?
Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,
fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like
those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.
I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.
What went from the subject of children getting goldfish from a fair (that, as everyone knows, don't last very long) became a critique about the aspect of female sexualization that some girls may grow up to want to employ the use of.
The blood flowing through my heart tickles as I lay in bed.
I have one wish: to protect me from my head, swimming with scaly goldfish.
I think, I thought, I remember.
All of this happens as I lay and ponder.
As I lay and rest, with this tiny goldfish tickle in my chest.
there were two deaths
a) a light bulb b) Gatsby
Floyd had sent a mass email:
New medium folks, send me any dead light bulbs.
the glass browned indicating the tungsten
filament evaporated, I put it in a plastic bag
Gatsby's was an easy autopsy
He was found in the tank's electronic filter
His eyes still wide
floating belly up in my toilet bowl
I took some petals from a potted daffodil
sprinkled them over him
I hadn't slept in three days
with both hands against the tiled wall,
I looked down into
the shower drain wanting
to slip inside it
every night since Rosencrantz died,
I've had dreams about dead goldfish,
their silver and gold scales gleaming sickly
red roses of blood blooming from beneath them
dead and bulging eyes staring at me.
every day I come home to find
Guildenstern still swimming is a gift
but the goldfish are still dead in my dreams.
They are always there
and I never know why.
Their bodies are piling up.
they say a goldfish has a memory of only a few seconds
and I think, how lovely, to love and forget
a hundred times a day.
but the wikipedia page on common misconceptions says really
their memory lasts up to several months.
Well if I could forget you every 30 days
that would suffice for me.
Wikipedia doesn’t say whether goldfish
even have the capacity to love
but if they do
it must be often, and sweet, and forgiving
who gets hurt once
and never forgets.
at least not this month.
“One more try, little girl.
I know you will get it this time.”
He says with a crooked smile.
He doesn’t really think so.
He wants her to fail so she will try again.
He wants her money.
She takes a deep breath.
Looks at the man grinning at her.
Stares at that one bottle that she has to get.
The one thing standing between her and her precious prize.
She squeezes her eyes closed.
“Mommy! Look I got a goldfish!!”
She screams with a huge grin plastered to her face.
She holds up her prize triumphantly for all to see.
If only it were that easy.
little goldfish, you are so small
one tiny piece. in this gigantic place.
little goldfish, you swim in the same circles.
never going anywhere.
little goldfish, why do you stare?
your large eyes
little goldfish, you rise to the top
only to find it hard to breathe.
little goldfish, you swim
to find there is nothing
water. just water.
little goldfish, does it scare you?
little goldfish, i wish i could take
your bowl and throw you into
i wish i could throw you on land
and watch you fade.
little goldfish, your suffering would end.
where is your mind?
A bag full of water
Little goldfish swim around
Nudge the bag, explore your world
Tell me all that you have found
Let me know your in there
Little nudges, little kicks
Let me see those acrobatics
Show me all your tricks
You are my little goldfish
With tiny little feet
I can't wait for us to meet
Another bowl, more tail then life
they wait for just to mate alone
yet their prison forbids them
as there is no cloth to cover them
They swim in such a confined space
never known of clear stream water
never known what it is like to be free
emasculated in their orbital prison
Poor things, I feel so sorry for them
round and round in circles they go
with nothing but gulping to do
these wretched creatures, these goldfish two
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris