bar none

The dove has a sad mouth.
The cross is stitched (in Celtic mode).
The triumvirate is gold.

Clouds paste over the sky.
The light grows dim.

Pluck the strings of my heart
rotgut over steel. I mean catgut,
of course, or horsehair,
fabric of a pre-industrial age.

Pat the girl and make her groan,
pick at the scab and make her yelp
(moan?) twist and writhe.

What fresh cross is this? What bliss!
Knees upon the wooden floor.
Back against the wooden door.
Bar across the wooden neck.

San Francesco gasps
face pressed against the bars
thin enough to push his way
through. He stays

in praise of the dove / the cross / the trine
a coo / a stripe / a herald
ear to the bars
more felt than heard.

The vibration of elongated fingers
plucking the dove
picking the cross
slapping the triangle——

O my she cries.

after Barre Phillips

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About Francesca Jurate Sasnaitis

Me = Francesca Jurate Kristina Sasnaitis... also known as Jūrytė/ Jūrytėle/ Jūračiuk/ Jurachook/ U-Russia/ Urata/ Rata/ Jay-bird/ Jay-peg/ Miss J/ Big J/ France/ Franca.... Sasna/ Fox/ Greville/ Knight... and Nerada Netis... as far as I can remember... oh, and there's still room for Kristina... somewhere, sometime... Me = drew, painted, made sculpture, then stopped; printed photographs, then stopped; wrote, then stopped; made furniture, then stopped; made prints, then stopped; became a bookseller and stopped; wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... started painting again... sold a few more books... stopped... wrote some more, kept writing some... and more... and now seeing words, writing images... was that last bit too wanky? What goes around comes around, I guess...
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