Deep down in a smiling bucket swimming clouds.
If it was up to me this house would be almost seven hundred years old
and more than thirteen kilometres tall.
I would sit in a rocking chair, creaking along with an out-of-tune piano and an orchestrion
that always tricks me with ever-changing tempo I'd be able to walk in the ceiling.
I would eat nebula for supper.
I would wear a necklace made of strung hailstones.
The well outside would be an eye that stares itself blind at the moon.
The water would sob.
The would be two winds moaning.
The shadows would converge when the clock struck twenty-five.
Oh how I wish I could walk about on the walls. And how I wish there were more hours in a night.
When I can't wish for more – the vision of scarabees crackling mandrake roots
in soil breathing ghosts of worms and scolopendras haunting you with their fumes
of horror till your soul tears your body apart and escapes.