Asemic Tarot Card 45 – The Metaphor Fabulist

The body of the River, suffering from depression, steals away her daughter – climbing up to a small mountain village isolated from the wild narratives of the North, dreams layered like fine silk, formed by the unpredictable world.

 

Odeon metaphors climb tall Epithets –

leaving behind Pitiful Hats.

Oxymorons exude bittersweet

Xotty Yellow Mirrors,

Ornate Onions,

found near surprising juxtapositions,

that cling to ephemeral epistles.

 

The Sparks sanguinely sing.

Grains of cumin

gently fall into the sleeping becks.

This folklore has crafted

a comforting poignant calibration –

jumping kitchen sinks

hopscotch across ceiling tiles

to the beat of Celtic reels –

flips and flickers,

fear-caring effervescent spirit tongues

touching Truth.

 

Bbq’d perogies brown,

crisp & swell,

bursting open –

a congregation of butterflies.

 

 

In the small Forest of Oxymora, history is woven in moss & mirrors of starfish monologues . Hidden Kelp becomes a poet in the sky. This has a history of inevitable reflections and philosophic pointillism.

 

 

Fabulism – “a range of non-realist narrative” or a literature of the fantastic which includes, but is not necessarily limited to magic realism, slipstream, literary science fiction, new weird, modern fable, fairy tale, literary horror, and surrealism. I resist the idea of one clear definition and refuse to draw a solid line between genres as I actually prefer to blur them. Most definitions, like manifestos, tend to exclude and qualify to the point of being useless to any practice of writing for wholeness and mystery, which I feel is an original gift of the muse. (Editor David Memmot of Wordcraft)

 

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Tale of the Seven Brothers

Here is a short tale about seven brothers and what happened to them.

 

 

 

A very long time ago there were seven brothers who lived in a village. Over time, one by one, the brothers died, until finally only one was left. Eventually, he also died of old age.

 

 

Those who knew the last of the brothers, felt his loss, and those who knew him hardly at all were less touched by his passing. That’s the way it goes. Of course this all happened long after the nine legged horse ran along the ridge just beyond the village, and Farmer Brown’s largest pumpkin hatched into a scarlet peacock that carried off Miss Margery. Well, some villages are like that.

 

A Meeting of Minds

Samuel Pepys, wrote John Evelyn, was ‘universally beloved, hospitable, generous, learned in many things’ and ‘skilled in music’. John Evelyn, wrote Pepys, ‘must be allowed … for a little conceitedness; but he may well be so, being a man so much above others’. Pepys’s assessment of Evelyn was made early in their relationship, in 1665, and Evelyn’s assessment of Pepys was made on the day that his fellow diarist died, in 1703. So rest the reputations of our two great recorders of Restoration England: Pepys, the middle-class son of a tailor, was a man of the people; Evelyn, the heir of a country gentleman, was a notch or two above.

 

Source: Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn: a meeting of like minds | The Spectator

 

A Dadaist Fairy Tale

 

People notch Poppies on zero trees – spy silver buttercups;

He wrote a day’s miles like this.

There in the middle class … in six sieves was a fiance’s consciousness. The person I loved, slept and learned.

 

In each Lyndon recorder, a constantly yellow pasta man by the forest was written in prose.

He or she is a “universal need” in John’s generous ocean. There was a middle class … the heart of the groom was in six corners.

 

Our musical relationship with rust is ours to dance –

let time hammer out the edges of our days.

 

The reason why he wanted to make this work the strongest was the claim that this research was not a controversy, but actually a taboo.

The descent brings mystery,

So the dead apparition of Vermilion Motion is born –

 

This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of magic and wonder.

Why was there a yellow stick?

The remaining creatures move only one.

I want to rust.

A glittering and long shining jungle writes taboos in the palm of your hand, as I thank my friends.

A good gentleman,

In that, and quite deeply –

finds a comfortable experience of bread-lid bedrooms.

 

Erythrocyte pebbles light pyres at the feet in my sand. Who is in each area?

Those that say they love lovers, and the swamp.

 

This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of happenstance and enchantment.

 

Now Go – this is the search query corner class –

&

ask Other Eyes, the tailor threads fate in your pockets.