The Dollhouse Architect’s Digest is a space where the dollhouse architect will clear her mind in sonnet and other poetry forms every once in a while.
Architectural Note: I’ve had friends who have been plagiarized by people and have had that misfortune myself. I’ve also had a person who I admired very much call me “a factory” about my output, and I know it wasn’t meant in a mean way, but it bothered me. Since I’m writing a poetry collection about a chocolate factory, Willy Wonka’s who is the victim of industrial spies and people who don’t want to do their own work, I decided to embrace the “factory” label in this poem — to embody his factory. Because here’s the thing — I love to work! And in that way I am a factory. I also believe that being very diligent and productive adds to your artistry. I have very stringent conditions i work under and maintain. And I feel that when someone steals a bit of me, they ultimately rob themselves of the chance of becoming better. The productivity, the innovation is what makes you a better writer. So I wrote a poem about all of this. (June 25th, 2020)
When your emissions waft delicate smoke
hot chocolate scent that comforts most folks, some
will choke on jealousy. Purloin crumbs of
imaginary upside-down bubblegum
buoyant cake never tasted, don’t know how
to make its blush balloons inflate between
peach gummy rings. Milk required comes from cows
who sing arioso for a year, cud emerald green
you engineered. Artistic conditions
a lifetime you make, the end, invention
some stranger might take for recognition
when the reward itself is innovation.
Productivity begets artistry.
They only see you as a factory.
Architectural Note: I’ve written a lot about female competitiveness. Social media can feed that fire in a danger way with how easy it is to compare followers, likes on tweets et cetera. I decided to write a little piece based on Snow White and the Evil Queen — though in this case the magic mirror she uses to quantitate her comparative fairness is social media. (June 19th, 2020)
Like The Fairest
a social media cautionary fairy tale
A modern queen has need of no magic
mirror just smart telephone with an app
that quantifies how well she is known with
emoji hearts, profile pictures she can tap
of any fairer competitors on
her digital map. She can scroll her feed
for lookalikes, the checkmarked echelons,
too many likes. If she were to see
her hunter’s approval mark below a
selfied heart-shaped birthmark, there then would be
the primeval scream — Brothers Grimm portrayed
such schemes before computers or tv.
Removing hearts to spite a fairer face
is bloodless, cancellation, in cyberspace.
Architectural Note: I wrote this sonnet last night for Crow Carriage, a poetic novel I’m writing and Amy Suzanne is illustrating. This sonnet takes place when The Mistress of Malice has been relegated to the basement after her betrayal of the evil nobleman Doctor by spying on his terrible experiment upstairs. For her betrayal, she has been left in a rat-infested basement ona bare mattress. When the woman who had been her lady’s maid upstairs comes to check on what she hopes to be a humbled prisoner, she finds the girl asleep amidst a room of dead, half-eaten rats. Afraid of what sort of sorceress the girl must be, the maid attacks what she does not understand. (May 29th, 2020)
Murder Then Repast By Candlelight
A trembling hand you offer him, raindrops
and lightning as you would descend out of
his carriage and into his house. Arm propped
by balustrade, pale nightgown doused, above
a lady is waiting to escort you in
a heavy oak door. Elegant grin though
you have no notion what for — she spins
you like ribbon is tied round your head. Shows
you to a chamber, a flocculent bed,
a gown atop bed clothes, same shade red as
what ebbed from exsanguinated, dead
relations tonight. Murder then repast
by candlelight is veal for two she prepared
before laudanum milk for others upstairs.
June 5, 2020
A Little Girl Who Does Not Deign To Die
Inside a massacre in black, what will
luminesce between crack of basement door
is thunderbolt animating eyes, shuttered, still
while you lie amidst inert mischief, floor
of infinitesimal gore. What invades
as more light pours down your staircase,
presents a frightful female face — once maid
now mistress within this forsaken place.
What scurries over furry backs, half devoured,
(all collapsed) corpses crunched beneath a laced
up boot will fall upon you like a brute.
Servile fingers wrap about a neck, wait
no more, circumspect, on the disrepute
recipient of some noblesse oblige —
a little girl who does not deign to die.
Architectural Note: This first poem is something I felt after watching Tiger King and feeling for Travis Maldonado, who I related to as a person who suffered from sexual and other addictions. Welcome to my diary in sonnets. (May 11th, 2020)
I Never Fucked A Tiger King
for Travis Maldonado
but once almost a Smoothie King I met
on cocaine at a rave one night. Said I
wouldn’t but I knew I might. I had let
his kind inside before who offered lines
even one who called me a whore to the
entire population of our punk rock bar. Was
not there but word travels far in itty
bitty southern towns of Wednesday Addams
fleshlights in skintight velvet gowns who would
swallow anything they had found. I know I am
no different than a teenager who put
on a ring, by methamphetamines damned
to wed Tiger Kings, lives we can’t abide.
I too fucked men who made me want to die.