Now it’s hollered over and ‘twixt these lofty peaks
some fellow found a lover beneath the summer, fireworks weeks,
but their pleasure is not all that sad gossip speaks,
in the violet slag of dusk–waning love, waxing buttocks.
Sadly, the soup sticks.
Like a hellacious hammer
on the two that nailed
was their cravings.
Cravings of the thighs
filled minds addled by ail,
clouded their future.
On the pub window
grew gorgeous rampion flowers.
More cravings filled hours.
Her prince explores stores,
returns, the rampion blooming
nine ways from July.
The birth in April
brought more rampion, wild in town,
an absentee parent,
(with his cravings spent),
who lost interest beyond sex,
left lives in a hex,
warlock of terrible thrice helix,
poisoned as city water,
pipes of pure pencil,
dwelling of trash heap,
rampion rampant, far from sleep.
Covened witches creep
closer, drawing down
around the mother for their own
pieces of her throne.
One crone and one troll
crave after her newborn son,
in exchange of scores.
These days it’s hard
for bucks to make it
from a paycheck to diapers,
especially, when her laddie
caught a cabby,
and left her some children
When the new boy came,
there was no work to buy food
to bring to their teeth,
She found the gift of nature sweeter,
its leaves looping in saliva,
breaking into green fibrous balls easy for the esophagus
to take its fortunes from the sun and soil
to her blood, when she wasn’t drunk or dazed
by the bountiful boons of her dealers
down dents and dank alleys that hide drug dens.
Yet her cravings collect into a collage of covets,
any companions close she guilted into giving.
The diaper stuffing fell out of the baby waste wrapper.
Some took to pissing on their toys.
Dishes grew into pots for kitchen plants.
Debt stayed on the couch and was well fed,
and a good friend to remind why
it was important to obtain a high.
Then, it was no surprise, when she handed
the magicians their sought after material
from her mating.
Father time ate all the moments
the inhabitants of earth made by seconds.
From naming their obtained orphan,
to his walking, to his first word,
the witch and troll kept a child
in the top of a tower powerful chameleon magic
made to look like an ordinary home.
When they weren’t minding to Rapunzello
they tried to tap into the forces that flooded
the town with rampion. After each amalgamation,
equation upon equation, sparks that bit back as snakes,
each failed attempt brought only more quests and questions.
And so, one day Rapunzello wasn’t a child anymore.
He longed by his window that a beautiful lady would pass by
his lonely eyes and make his insides melt into warmth.
When the troll would bring him food he’d ask,
“Father, how did you meet mother?”
The troll would answer,
“Do you see the flower, beneath your window, in our flower beds,
flowering into fields, that fall forward over the far distance?”
Rapunzello tired of his questions answered with questions
and hated how the flower was always some fact
from which he was to learn from. He would sigh,
answer in the affirmative, and only partially listen
to why he must not leave his room, why the witch and the troll
were different from him, and how he wasn’t lonely, and with them,
and to only think upon himself, and one day, somehow, surprisingly,
some beauty might brake his burden.
He slept upon being the being supreme of another being,
he would wake the same, by the break in the wall watching the leaves
fall with the breeze, watching the birds breaking the soil for worms,
watching season after season, when suddenly with wild wonder,
what passed one spring from one eye to the other, but his obsession?
After which, interestingly, the only thing from the cupboard the witch or troll could find to feed him and his fevers falling quite sick, the only thing that would not regurgitate, the only thing he could digest was rampion?
He told the troll and witch that he was not sick, he was rather well, ignoring how he would
not sleep through night, not one wink through troubled night, and
he had been rejuvenated and reborn by a certain ray that shined through the shades
drawn over his window for some days. Out of his presence the troll and witch
worried in the work about Rapunzello’s mornings and evenings which had brought
his current circumstance.
When no one was around, the lady of Rupunzello’s rapture would come through the window, they would talk, they would eat delights from down there, they would
speak about all that was sinful in Rapunzello’s room by the rules of Witch and Troll.
At a feast of salad one evening, the witch graced Rapunzello. He had to know why they
worried, why they wished he would far surpass forgetting and move on living beyond his recent desire. There was a curse that would take his sight and more mischievous malcontent that would fate his frail fraction of existence.
Still days passed the same–only eating rampion salad. Rapunzello had taken to silence.
One day the troll and witch heard a heavy noise against the house that came from the
high halls of their feigned house. They went to Rapunzello’s room and found the female
taking Rapunzello by the arm to leave the window.
What befell his maiden and what happened to Rapunzello is harder still to divulge.
He tripped when mysteriously losing his sight, taking the rope into hand knocking the maiden from her sure grip to the ground into a thicket of thorns, leaving her forever scarred and a beauty no one could beckon from sleep. Rapunzello eats on rampion to this day, forced from the troll and witch when cursed cultivated a home of his own, brings beauties to his embrace, and then when light breaks brings them to his door
to depart never to see them one night more.