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Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.
The sun rose this morning
And I could hear the gossamer
Vibrations of dew-laden spiderwebs.
And the bees came,
All stretches and yawns,
To start their chorus.
Between sips of honey
Tempered with coffee,
They would light upon my lobe,
And amid a flurry
Of little bee kisses,
Would sing of their love for her:
“She’s so sweet and lush,
We cannot resist the allure.
Her nectar drips and floods,
And makes us drunk
With happiness and joy.”
Their tiny bee lips
Pleaded with me
To make her more.
They wish to see her unique
Hybrid of blue and yellow
Across all the meadows of the kingdom.
“Spread her, Master Blue,
Propagate her over hill and under dale,
And we will make of her
The richest honey
The world has ever seen.
For nowhere in the kingdoms
Has there ever bloomed
A flower so rare
As the union of
wisteria and buttercup.”
For she is neither flower,
And somehow both—
The impossible sweetness
That happens
When these two
beautiful flowers
Blossom and shine.