Menu Switch

Earthquake Vash (Predicted by the Seismograph in the Heart)

By Thylias Moss From Issue No. 3

+  Another killer enters the horizon, sky now, killer sky: Sweet dirigibles of grief clinging to what’s left of rafters. cling, cling, cling, clogs in drains, detergent to dirt, whistling Dixie, all whistles sound like dixie, engine, engine in’jun #9, how do you do, how do ya do, cock-a-doodle, that’s dandy fine and dandy, those Dan Dee potato chips those lumps of pimples, white wormy mountains, waltzing scallion hunters, puss skaters, seekers squeezed out, attrition, rank and file, gritted teeth, sharp as barbs, bite, bite, tunnel to glow-rious weathers, whether or not it rains, gifts from the skydiving dirigible killer, first to the birth of grief, sweet grief because he’s right on time, wasn’t hiding, met his responsibility, in labor head on collision with Vash, supposedly only in the rear-view mirror, driving backwards as you try to go forwards, tires remembering where they’ve been, a new kiss horizon exists right now, those darkening skies, that mouth coming close and meeting your acrobatic tongue inside that cave of words, unfiltered words as if you spit everything out, spite, in spite of what you should say, Vash, I’m sorry, a sorry-ass man, how can you stand yourself, hands in your pockets, as if that erection of fingers somehow steadies you, on on each side shake you to the west where Vash is, blow right over her as if she doesn’t matter, then shakes you to the east where you are done with her, as you’ve long wanted, no Vash to have to deal with to interfere with the life you have now MUSing without her, and everything’s better except that storm cloud you wear like a hat jack in the box you balance on your rather elegant polished head, pucker, pucker, kissy kissy and more white worms of puss noodle out, snickerdoodle, German, even the words you like most to use: past tense, present tense, those participle pimples, from wunderkind, where else? Your own wanderlust, under your homburg, homburger, homme man burger, you are awfully delicious, luscious leberwurst kuchen from the kitchen on my back wards where birth and Sweet Grief occur, twins, dirigible Doppelgänger and all, past and present colliding, particle collider, here I am, Alpha Vash, Omega Vash, bang, bang, zoom, dirigible gesundheit in the backwoods, plunder this birth grief will never be sweeter than this, test it like an old diode, thermionic tube, theramin of your heart and every other muscle you wind up in Vash’s hair slings precious cargo over your shoulders, drooping low now, sun setting you up for sweet memories of everything Vash, 5 and dime, laundry legacy, see you go, see you drool, see you remember Vash at an inconvenient time, for you are done with her, so you think, but the mind reader sees what you refuse, one two, you buckle Vash’s shoe, you put her foot in the slipper and it fits perfectly, footman, hairman, breastman, bestman, Vashman, loud obstreperous fuel rods, dirigible valedictorians every one, straitlaced to the top, buttoned down where your past as solid as it could be, de-faults lines up, all your duckies, you know what you did, ducking what you didn’t want to deal with, those skies bluer and truer than your eyes, most of the fault, is there if there must be some, and apparently there must be for without you no memories to plunder, no banana to slip in, sip off, riff off, sublime antietam aqueduct



furnace site (dirigible or not) where these feelings come aloud in clouds so wrinkled they need ironing within their boundaries that are not solid, bake a man, rumble, rumble in the preheating, striating of earth, colossal implication of openings, grand openings, implications, Sweet Memories, how they linger, how they fester, pester good sense, witch trails to trials, guilty of everything of course, feels like it, as good as that, as sweet as that was for some of them, bring it on home to the church home, pray for forgiveness, easier even for a seeker of temporary pleasure to get it from Vash, so ask her for it, you know she will give it to you, that ruined woman will give you anything, and did, still does, as everything prepares to cave in those seismic warnings, dirigibles all, take cover, the boundary of your present is nothing but a wall, like wall of Jericho, Berlin wall, Humpty Dumpty’s wall, all fall sky wall too although you closed your present, bankrupt, out of business, closed for repairs, that won’t be fixed, tax write-off like me, written off, digested, felt good going down, Mister Muse Advisor, mistiest blooms yes, that inconvenience of memory, gores you, that in truth of those unstoppable sweetened memories of weather behind that curtain of dirigible rumbling, registering on a seismograph, registering as things must for school, for the draft of sweet memories into a sweetness no one deserves and that was misplaced, erupting loudly, refusing the greater silence of non-existence or even worse: total forgetting, pretending some things never happened, means nothing even as that seismograph of heart beating almost futilely as if it is the entire band of soiled and sullied musicians out for nothing but a stroll, trying to ignore that New Kiss Horizon, but there is no other; either accept this Horizon or have none, certain worlds have ended, not neatly at all, storm raging, ground slitting like mouths; teeth emerge of course, but not incisors or bicuspids, Parícutin tooth, wisdom Pariícutin tooth and nail to hammer away, echoes in Detroit: Hannan, Hannan, Hannan hammer away refusing to remain buried, sprouting aromatic essences calling in your past life as a blood(y) hound with sweet memories of biting Vash, ruining her for anything else but you, my, what big teeth you have, even between your legs, canines, those too, boundaries, that restrict Vash, deny her access to your heart where the rest of her disembodied memories are, ever sweeter being disembodied in that Angela Carter Chamber laboratory that some call your heart that also is a seismograph recording all this rumbling, so much vibration, rock, rock, ping ping, little engines that can insist without thinking about Earthquake Vash also happening, you do not control the weather, happens whether or not you want it to, too, too bad; you want it bad, ly, lee leeward too, two of you, twin ruptured peeks of peak-ed you undressing Vash rumbling, trembling in your latitude of quaking arms where each rumble is a page of Sweet New Kiss Horizon, a hard-hat Zone, and now the spine of that book aligns with that spine of dream broken by anti-dirigible grief that already consumed you and now that Sweet Grief of Earthquake Vash dressed in Earthquake NKH, sky is really falling in love and other big pots of tragedies, fine armor attire continue to consume what’s left of a Thomas Robert Higginson from the past, where your continued active duty is not the silent role you thought you were hoping for in a present disconnected from the very past that helped grow you into whatever you are becoming, still traveling with grief in your ball bag of tricks, Felix the cat not nearly as good as you are, in this splitting burial ground, the graves spitting out what they had to force swallow, gravel and



graupel the dead were told was restorative pills remember those beanstalk dreams that haunt every Vashti Acres burial parish with thoughts of perish, publish, pear riche dessert, just dessert to die happi-ness superlative hap nest=

About Thylias Moss More From Issue No. 3