it’s just a drop of snail,
like the ligament
squirms the salty river
after the dashed lines,
like dangling dawn,
tettered dew comes
it’s just snail-drivel,
like a colorless torch
is the mucous membrane aflame
the babbling tear-bonfire
cracks like a splinter
the burning snail is sobbing.
Snail-slug, snail-slug come out of your home!
Your house is on fire!
(i’ve no more tears left, it’s gone)
loudly taps the snail,
like a dry bread
tearless firegirl, bare
humidity evaporates, the frost disappears
it’s a burning hot desert-winter
it’s enameled by a snail-shell case
inside it awaits her the night
a library-long space
she starts it, nibbles on it,
one leaf after another,
but the paper doesn’t lessen
in a book-air steps the snail,
book-stacks on the snail’s windpipe
(my book never lessens inside here)
claps the slug,
like a dry palm
she just turns the page, folds it,
it’s a sluggish book-moorland
the tile-shell cracks –
she’s not done yet
You’ll get milk and honey,
you will have plenty!
sometimes she peeks outside,
waves with it’s half eye,
the eye rocks on the thin stem
and if she sees a shadow,
a sword or a knight,
she retract herself inside her,
she shakily slides into the shell-house
alone, alone inside
for what, she doesn’t know,
for whom, she doesn’t say,
alone, alone she waits
If you don’t come out, you’ll be sorry!
You I will not marry!
why, what a clever twist!
something is glinting outside…
a curious snail-horn looks out:
is it just another bearded malice?
the short-sighted stem blinks,
the snail-castle welters and flickers,
the horizon trembles and throbs
and that awkward chandelier-movement
doesn’t scare her away yet,
fear and the snail-turn is slow,
she doesn’t smell military technology
she dares to stick her head outside halfway
she stares with big eyes, scans the scene:
is he going to trick her as well? will he trap her?
cut her horns? shrivel the snail?
will he grab her with a pitchfork? grind her with his sod-teeth?
but she can’t even finish her thoughts,
when she’s seized by the collar
she’s dragged by her scruffy stem
out to the big, feared, real light
the poor one was used to
the neon tube, spiral staircase, library-steam,
she was used to locking her door
now she’s been caught,
piched up, taken home
she is still living inside
the Valiant Knight’s cozy heart,
at the bend of his dreams and soul,
in a wimpy snail-bliss