Superstition

i

Church bells
sing sweet melodies
on hallucinogens,
shifting and melting
with every turn

Yellow submarines
sleep, tickling each other
beneath the shade
of the poplar tree –
portly retrievers in play

Crocodiles grapple
futile carnal elegies,
slamming against
the barnacled post
as one meekly submits

Sofas straddle
bequeathed nuns, sitting
on a serene sea of canaries…
Feathers and fingers
skim mysterious surfaces.

Sunbeams pluck
lonely D strings to girls
who overindulge
penchants in picking
burnt button noses –

where forth art thou
all you flaxen-haired
weeping maidens?!

An out-of-tune guitar
cries ligated murder
in an overflowing closet,
frustrations muffled by
overzealous lacy bras

A stranger’s back
rolls over back and forth
repeatedly –
cigarette burns adorn
now-forlorn occupancy

An empty yawn
reverberates
in a silent sea,
perforated with holes
and question marks:

A vague insult?
Surrender’s end?
Tired endearments
left over from
Sunday’s argument?

They ricochet off
golden chambers
filled with nothing,

but a single
glistening
children’s horn.

ii

The ship’s bottom
overturns

and I gasp, roar –
tear the house down
with bare hands,
screaming:

“Why did it
have to end?”
into my duvets

as reality’s
nooses awaken,
rechecking its grip
loosened partly

from the strangest sleep.

iii

“I’ll write it
into my
dream journal
and see
what all this means”

is the mantra
now muttered

with every
new morning –

residues
of a charming habit,

from the best hobby
in the world:

overthinking

(because it is free
and I am solitary!)

iv

Soon enough,
a yellow submarine
emerges from a
shop’s signboard

don’t talk to me
about John, Paul,
Ringo and George

and a nun bows
in deference
as cars pass by;
a canary cage

tentatively clasped
in the hand
with the black
rosary beads

jesus christ superstar

I stop midway
in the sentence
that I already
know the
answer to

we will meet on –
the – 23rd – of – july!

A scream
that splits
the seams
of my skull,

as I turn around:

there is no one there…

I bury my nose
and inhale deeply –

tarot decks,
camomile,
natal charts –

the sweeter scent
of insanity,
accusations and
eyes rolled over
too many times
stains the fabric
a mottled red:

Oh, come on –
you know that’s all bollocks…

Simply a pure coincidence,
that’s all it is

I can’t believe
you still believe in that!

How would I
best explain
the things

that seem
to occur only
when I am all
on my lonesome?

v

I consider
all unappealing
conjectures
as I buy groceries
for the week,

smiling sweetly
at the butcher’s
gloved hand

that returns me
three
six dollar notes,

watching with
some satisfaction –

the spark that glows
on the pool’s surface,

as my knuckles
imprison
themselves

in the shade
whiter than ivory itself

© Zelda Reville


Not as scary as this one, at least.

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2 thoughts on “Superstition

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