Tinsel Teaspoons

August 10, 2012
By tatianadubin GOLD, New York, New York
tatianadubin GOLD, New York, New York
12 articles 0 photos 0 comments

The air is creamy and obese as it billows past the leopard print curtains. Morning’s wet velvet caress tickles Jane back into reality as yawns spill from her nimble lips. The sun’s newfangled rays burnt away Night’s well and dawn’s dew misses the wet stone. Nostalgia dangles its sagging breasts as the dew echoes its lost hollowness by gathering into circles and watching the world. Aeolus breathes onto the palette of the sky and clouds mushroom forth, gathering the waning dew.


Fugitive of fountainhead moments;
The halting martyr forestalling fate’s cyclical currents;
The antagonistic nomad of inter-galactic deserts-
It now hides beneath a blanket of blue sky…

As night smears itself around the other half of the world, Stars prostitute themselves up against the black plateaus. The Moon, a gin-drinking, dirty old man, roundly smiles at the winking Stars.

Mama Prostitute, our dear Sun, floats its weightless tendrils and composes dawn’s daily Renaissance. Dust particles jump like TV-static as pockets of breezes unfold. A myriad of collected hairs and lint scant across the chipped beige walls. The summit of Jane’s yawn arrives just as an ambulance howls by, and as it slackens with distance, she checks the time. 6:15 AM.

Bedroom of whines and creaks and yoking laundry strings and vestiges of past wanderers!…bedroom of an 18 year old girl’s wringing heart and towering clothing-pyramids!…bedroom that once clotted itself in darkness while evening humbled forth and condensed sky into a black-and-gray collage… But not now, no, now the bedroom is a cathedral of iridescence and illumination!

Jane smells her loneliness on her skin with her first inhale of morning. She notices the branches of her veins and wonders if one day she will grow leaves. Loneliness smells like citrus and burns through her nostrils. She prays that it will waft away and blend in with her sweat.

Night’s surrender to the Sun’s beauty plays out like a mirage on her wall. She watches the Moon get down on one knee to let Sun pass, watches Sun’s swirled hair gravel forth with the movement. Jane sees the Moon clutching, behind its dented belly, a ring made from the Milky Way. Jane loved watching nature courting nature and wondered if anyone else could see all this.

As an Australian Night sweeps-clean Heaven’s entrance, Jane extends a lean arm downed in thin fur. Reaching across her bed for last night’s diet coke, she likes and notices how her stomach is an escalator of abs in the morning. What could be wrong about the morning? She thought, as water-lilies mushroomed up into the stagnant air of cheap, walk up apartments.

She was trying to think about the positive side of night- what good comes from the bloated blackness of nighttime? She thought and thought as she observed the sandy grime of her finger nails. She came to the conclusion: “Night can always not shine somewhere.” Just like her, she thought. Just like her.

Treatise of sycophant Sun…treatise of mottled Moon…evanescent…just a dollop of lemony love…

(Standing gaunt and made-up in a plush sofa-cloud)

Moon: To be the fledgling egg and the forerunner of the pomp
Sun: To be a fickle dot and exhale tawdry garnish
Moon: To be a harbinger of shadowed trouble
Sun: The irony of my many memoirs
Moon: My misread petitions…

The sky is now inflaming in semen swarms and harangues explode in an uncontained meshes and the world is humping itself violently, too violently .It is teeming and spitting and shitting and Jane sits there with too many people crowding up inside of her lungs like it’s the last supper and she isn’t Jesus.

Jane is a fuse ball of contradictions, and the world is too pedagogical and there are too many overtones and her heart is nothing but highlighted prattle and the pith of her life isn’t the gilded plagiarizers or trumpeting tomes of useless identities but the syntax of the people and the fleeting verses and mutterings of simple souls and the lethargic and the useless. That is why when she suddenly saw the Sun and Moon making love upon the smooth thigh of a pulsing morning- she was cajoled by her conscience into a hazy, lucid hypnotism.

Lunar/Solar Eclipse: metamorphosis of the permeating Moon

Embodiment of things spread and entities combining and the Moon imbued the Sun and the Sun infused everything and the Stars were neutral watching from all angles. It was steady.

An old man dressing: hodgepodge of a sock drawer
Influx of trembling notes: Parkinson patient brushing teeth

To relinquish everything
As the pinnacle burns louder
Greed greed greed greed
And more greed
Until everything is a pyramid and the periphery is coming and everything is professing and the Sun is screaming out and the Moon is hollow and drumming onto itself and the puny peacock gargles and the residue is fairy dust and we all only got a

Snippet of

It All

By the time the eclipse swallowed itself into brightness, Jane was a dead pan. She was 6 year old flip flops. She was Cinderella’s broom. The decadent dawn unwound its braided flaxen hair to reveal grey roots. Sky was the brain of a confused hermaphrodite with too many options. Jane basked in the grey gleam of a cheap sun and thought, spiraling up to the zenith of herself: “I gauge their love with tinsel teaspoons, and I am so wrong. To be detached is to be gone. To eclipse with anything and everything and nothing is both cosmetic and integral to any sort of happiness.”

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