Faded Houses Green

The thorn of the jester gave puce thrill to the beastly pity of a bitter mystery. Butter would be better, after engulfing the bile of a bilious clown. Mock me, says the jester’s mother. Mock me dead.

Hand held high above the tower, the throb of a tribble trembled in the night. Whereon is the lead and the corresponding dearth of pickaxes? The sea is empty without your pickaxes, mother. Her offended trick wove strands of mist among the lilacs, the black lilacs, waving in the empty sea of sunshine. Landscapes do that now and then when they tire of the tried and true.

Blue potatoes taste like chicken which the jester pulled from his mother’s leopard skin hat. Temptations are in surplus this time of year, but the means to yield to them are scarce. Scarce sauce of cherry pit juice reduced to almost nothing; however, the jester’s recipe calls for a mother’s touch.

Fleeing the fleshpots of Egyptian tapestries, the black cat sprang from the leopard skin hat and fled into the lilac night.

Originally published November 19, 2023