I woke up from a dream, in which I met an old lady, who was such a bitch.
My grandson, who is two ate fish fingers from a plate, as he sat in the luggage rack at the front of the bus.
The old lady got off chuntering and muttering, that he shouldn't be eating fingers made out of fish, as he was sat on the bus.
Bloody woman picked them of and stole them straight from his plate,
Muttering, that it was disgusting eating fish fingers while sat on the bus.
"Listen here mate, that's wholly inappropriate", said I.
Somehow resisting the urge to punch her in the eye.
I cursed and cussed and I gave her my worst.
While my grandson, just sat still on the bus, still a little bemused
He's not used to old lady's pinching his food.
She got off the bus, after facing my daggers, just looks, as I don't often cook.
She had the audacity to steal his tea, apart from bits of verbal conflict, got off bloody scot free she did.
My grandson, he just looked up at me, after squishing the remnants into my knee.
My most expensive rain coat is now in need of washing.
I'm wondering now who'll be fitting the bill.
My heart melting grandson looked straight into my eyes.
At the end of this story, he's the perfect prize.
But he's still a little hungry, as she stole his fish fingers.
And this silly bit of prose is just a pack of silly lies.
Made up as the result of a dream, I just had.
Here's hoping you enjoyed my tale.
It's pouring with rain and blowing a gale.
Probably the noise it drew me from sleep.
The times when dreams are prevalent.
When fantasy from dreams be inventive and put to wholly good use.
(c)Livvi

If you ever get close
to the fork in a path,
wander through the tectonics
that diverged the road
in the first place.

Every pixel of your being
is animated. Even the unlit
trap doors leaving pockmarks
on your mind's landscape
possess colors with no name.

Who knew electronic and acoustic
were just estranged family all along?
GENRE is a manmade affectation--
music appreciation for Jingoists.

If they feed you a raindrop,
swallow the entire ocean.

to the icelandic girl asleep
on my couch

i find you beautiful and
fascinating in a way i've
never found a american
girl. i find myself lacking
words, to speak to you or
to write about it. enigmatic,
it seems.

and it seems i'm far too
american for your tastes
it's written all over my ego
and fears, prescriptions and
words. you can tell. i can tell
i am of no romantic interest to
you.

but your smile?
makes frozen glaciers
forcefully crash
down

I brought out the old crosses from the closet.
Tell me how you hung for so long--
tyrant of the faithful and proud,
and if I get scared I swear
I'll try to nail you back down.
How cruel I must have been as a child
to grow with the mindset I have now,
and it's more than it seems,
the way my tongue sticks inside like
barbed wire
bleeding terrible verses in the corner
until the veins are dry
to realize that what you told the world
has only been a white lie and everyday
you are fighting to just go into the field
and burn alive with the hope that your ashes
will be named after saints and mix well with the winds
so that everyone can inhale you and praise you--
(is that what you were thinking when they condemned you?)

Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.

Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.

But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Face against the screen
breathing cool air
like the bottom of my pillow
like an Icelandic well
like a Nietzsche abyss
like a black leather glove
like a moth on my nose
singing shiny happy people.

“Jurt,” she
curtly spurts out
and stops
not knowing if
she’s going to
continue to
speak unknown tongues
or if
this emanation, this
interjection,
spoken on strange
impulse,
is Icelandic
or Bosnian
or Serbian,
and if
the middle one
how not the last,
when they both mean
the same thing, yurt.