The churchbells on Sunday

I get behind two lesbians in the Italian market, this medieval town in Germany — the market, no bigger than an elevator car, a telephone booth, and I say to the guy behind the counter you can leave the cheese out, I’m getting some too:
and we are all trying on new words like hats in a department store.
one of them says, Great and the other looks at her like, I didn’t know you could say that
and I gesture to the cheese behind the case and make a sawing motion with my hands and say, Grate.
And all of us laugh and say have a nice day, prego.
And on the way home I keep to the sides of the town like a rat who walks along the walls sideways,
by the time they find my footprints I’ve moved on to my next meal.
I wake to the sound of churchbells and no plans,
only poems about cheese, rats, lesbians,
how the number of tolls denotes the time,
why none of it matters,
the clock makes the same sawing motion sounds too
as it sands out the grains,
and as I lay in bed I can’t feel my body
I might be part of the sky
if I imagine it right.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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9 Responses to The churchbells on Sunday

  1. walt walker says:

    I dig your poetry, man. I was typing late at night the other day when a giant cockroach skittered up to my keyboard and startled the shit out of me. I moved and he skittered back. A few minutes later, he peeked out again. I moved and he vanished. I wanted to destroy him but it would have made too much noise, the swinging and swatting and bashing that was needed. I got him the next night though when he came into the living room and everyone else was still up and my wife squealed and commanded me to destroy him. I only mention it because I’m thinking of you walking along the walls sideways like a rat. Great image. It’s really late here, though, and I’m gonna piss off some folks if I’m not able to rise’n shine shortly after the girls do, so g’night.

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    • pinklightsabre says:

      It’s inspiring to me how good it feels to write for just a few people really, so thank you Walt, I’m glad you dig it! And the insects do get large this time of year, like the fruit. I tried to get a spider in a vacuum the other day here but it crept off into the dark, will meet up with that one another time, a dark alley.

      My friend in Portland removed a spider from his bedroom earlier in the summer and it was so large, he heard it hit the ground when he tossed it over the neighbour’s fence; it’s fun imagining how to compare the sound to like a tennis ball or something.

      I think you can relate to this, from a comment you made about your own writing some time ago (the ghost on the bike), and how it writes itself in your head. For better or for worse, I’m being awakened by odd lines like this in the wee hours of the morning, uncertain what time it is and having to judge by the church bell tolls, and then writing with the laptop so bright I have to cup my hand over it for a while until my eyes get used to it. Funny times, here. Thanks for being into it.

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  2. rossmurray1 says:

    This is a great ending to my Billapalooza today. I start work tomorrow. Feel my pain.

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  3. that is a real poet right there…mind following?

    Liked by 1 person

  4. A single poem about cheese, rats, lesbians, etc. might be an interesting challenge… All in one!

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  5. Is it ironic that you are surrounded by a constant reminder of what time is it when, in fact, it never mattered so little? No phones to answer. No desk to sit at.

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    • pinklightsabre says:

      It’s weird — and far be it from me to complain about anything, the fact I was starting to fall into some odd insomnia pattern, like my mom’s, just down the hall, listening to the bells and thinking, thinking, thinking. Some Poe in that maybe. Poe-folk, who knows. But odd, you’re right.

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