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.
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.
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
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.
The presence you hold in my heart will forever be sewn of silver and gold.
At the draw of s string
It all will unfold.
For you my dear.
All for you.
For you my dear
Open the screens and the gears.
All for you.
All thud in unison.
You perceive a beautiful melody.
I block out shreiks and creeks.
Circling the heart
Similar to a stray dog fight or a used car dealer.
Are you a man or a mouse?
From which did this come out?
So treat it like another plaything.
Similar a goldfish
Ivory scars line her chest
Sharp stings when touched
Sharp stings when untouched.
To think...your heart a goldfish?
“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.