Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Peter Greene

small hot milk

there is a little tiny man
who cuts up my nutmeg for me
he comes down to my house from the moon
on a tiny pair of snowshoes - silver-stringed
like electric tennis rackets
he cuts up the spice very quickly, into
tiny diamond-edged triangles; much better
than any grater or grinder can make
is the fresh taste of this
that he cuts - but
one night i caught him and squashed him against the wall
burst like a bug and guts -  i
was tired, i was half-awake, he surprized me - no more
will i see the quick crazy half-smile
that would cross his face as he plied his tiny scissors; no more
will i see his eyes glint and glitter in the yellow kitchen light. He was beautiful.


Jenny said...

"on a tiny pair of snowshoes - silver-stringed/like electric tennis rackets"

The atmosphere and imagery, extremely well done! I come to think of eery fairy tales of the days of John Blund (Hoffmann's, I mean). Your reading is also perfect for this piece.

Thanks a lot for this post, Peter!

Peter Greene said...

Thank you, Jenny! You are very kind. I find readings hard - the words are pronounced perfectly well in my mind, but in the real world I am a large, nasal mumbling sound. So thanks doubly, for a double compliment.


Jesse.s.mitchell said...

Ah very nice.

Arkava said...

Hey Peter. really great to see you & hear you reading man!! enjoyed muchly!


Andreas said...

I very much enjoyed the flow of this piece.

"He was beautiful". That's the epitaph we all want.

Peter Greene said...

Thanks, everybody!