AE Reiff – prose

Sue Smoke

I was searching microfiche and knew at first her name was Guap. In that day when she came home her car smoked. This word was smudged in the script. It vas vulkan!  probably volcano, written in Dutch. Her other name was Myth. She worked nights in Die Bowling-Strass renting shoes. There was so much smoke when she put the pedal down crowds gathered as if for fire. No fire really, no sirens, just riots and smoke from her car.

Dat vas vat drew da crowd on walks. Widows did big directions, great finger pointing groups, but in the midst a soup can picture, arms waved, mobs and crowd-secret gloaming. Don’t say Gawk. You’d done different? Prurience is like this.

So when dudes called up fate for the giantess sprout, Sue Lit in her guise was at school: the death of Lit, a desire to consume obese. This refers to Dame Belch, Flab Flut, the one who married G. Turk, Susan’s father, Mr. SolongTurk, who had eight hundred party sloops on Danger sea, symbol of all who consumed.

Kindreds gatted when she pulled up in the smoke. Down nubbin, parceled bone!  Largess ruled nation. Word went home. More came, artery lite, appetite gone wry.

2.

He was hairless. Susan looked like him, but she had hair man.
Depressions left by their feet where they stood together in the park… hardly are those words out when drowned little dogs.
It says that here in the 8×10. It was Presumption! The Dame! Credo brewed the night that Turk got shanked and smoked. Sue entered mise en scène.
Clouds of smoke roared from Damer’s chimney.
What did you expect, car licenses for oleanders?
Belches among pleasant elves?
In that world, home from the bowling leagues, came Sue.
She rented balls and schuhe.
As always crowds gathered.  Men pinched women and shook gas.

Susan had the seat of her car removed so she could drive from the back.
She was tall. She was wide.

Do you get that Step Dame ate the eco-redux!
The sign of our time, do-piping fruit.

Who wouldn’t want a moo cow trimming? Éclair Susan great as a cow. We liken her to vision, earmarks of mother myth.

The neighbors were watching Susan. She could live in a building like you and me. Her hall was a bowling lane. One chair reversed to a two-story bed.  There were verses on the wall that sagged in the corner where the red phone was ringing. Those who ate the subsequent thought goats were texting.

Susan stands for fate.
Great giantess disports as we speak. Hope it clears the telling.  She was the meat, loved by all. But here came Belcher, consumed SueLit. Obesity overcame.

Dark moon cool light, porch open.
Homeless drifted one by two.
Damer swept unmaking.
Freezer humped the blues.
Sixty Watt tramped out  Damer’s hutch smashed.
Et too, that sissy bulb smashed.
Hedgerows ran round like eggs,
little lines of joke run wild.
Wordsworth stuck on the wall Supported Wood.
Pflege! Fliege!
You’d think the glass would tinkle
louder than an attorney breaking,
louder than trees in plywood shorts.

How many came? We’re  taking census.  A syndicate implies the body gone.
Wagons and tricycles biked up to windows, trains for Meet the Press at dawn.
What did those bandits at the massy door, freezer nosed room, Maginot! Fffliedersehen!   but it was bicycles (agents never stop swarming), round the cold room, fists in closets opened the bed. The beef? Plop! Cold door! Plop! Fast chickens hung on hooks, Quack-cluck! packed, blame housewife who can’t remember roast under veil, loin on claw or in the self, fat veal. Yeah! By compartment! Room, room.

She come from the footprints of Pegasus, pierced polar night where the cap poked down.
Hip mama take you winking!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!
Sue smoke a cloudy dawn!


AE Reiff. The thoughts and impressions of all kinds of receivers broadcast back. Whether imperfect in themselves or they are imperfect is one, which sees objectively here too obscure, there too facile, here opaque, there commonplace. Meet these imperfections here.

Advertisements

About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
This entry was posted in Prose. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to AE Reiff – prose

  1. I am extremely impressed with your writing skills and also with the layout on your blog. Is this a paid theme or did you customize it yourself? Anyway keep up the excellent quality writing, it is rare to see a great blog like this one today..

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s