Lazy Cat and La Malinche

Lazy Cat and La Malinche

La Malinche queen of conspirators, arches her back
Flips in and out of being a cat, is sun on pebbles
The dark shadow cupping her buttocks
In two crisp indigo moons, she loves
That grey conquistador who is her companion –

Down by the river, hot flies sting the alligators’ lips
A huge anaconda slides a filthy malcontent down his throat
There is healing in this swamp  of dripping leaves
The leeches have purpose, the women collect them
To cool fevers, senors with red hands indolently flip fish
Gambling on supper cooked in green sheaths
In scarlet bodega  broom cupboards , men dream
Of  Malinche rubbing her breasts upon a fur rug
Their ribcages  can barely contain the hormones
That make them  loathe themselves
As a preparation for war.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved



woods lady2.jpg

She made love to all the little fishes, slipping them through her fingers

From mi yeye deh a mi knee she sang to all the black nosed  creatures
Learning their names by hearing their voices, what can this un do? Fo mi?

Slow tings burnin’
Hot tides breakin’ on science
Obeah thickets

As he walked toward her
As if he would govern
Her ownliness, her balm yard

Fo’  cri! She laugh out loud
Dis one tink he Cortez !


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved




In rooms where poppies bloom and fade, and fade away
This child wanders, steps away in time –
Nothing changes, but change itself is master
Of this house of wax. See histories fly
Through doors and windows, broken linkages
Dispersed by thought, but thought is air
In this bone pavilion, manufacturing truths
From memories, a fretted column falls like powder
When she stoops and picks the flowers that she never picked
In this retelling, the flowers change
Are ruby, gold or azure, fresh or rotted
Subject to neglect, or care, depending
On the day, the listener, the lover

What she never said, or said –
And what they chose to hear.



Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved


Photograph ‘ Shivering poppies’ by Veronica

Weary slippers


Weary slippers

Clouds lend themselves rain-masks, quickstep
In a mirage of ballrooms which are chained against
The late arriving dancer; these are glossy rooms
Whose mirrored confusions hide unknowable essences
Out here tenebrous corners shield dust-mice
Dripping fats build new mishapen candles
Embedding dreams with secondhand encounters
She peers longingly, belongingly
At the sugared fancies sparkling on long dais
Set out in such taunting array
Out here there is only homeward
If her address can be remembered
After such lavish wanderings
Such ineluctable diminuendos –

But how plangent is that music!
As all music is, when you are cold

When heard from far away.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

His architect wife


His architect wife

Wei-Wei is wearing forty layers of scintillating hanfu
Silk is wrapped tight- oof! about her little waist
Hampered by feet so small they do not need binding into lotusblossoms
She tiptoes with high poof-poof hair perched with glossy magpies

No one knows about the little pooches hidden in her sleeves
Or the fact she eats midges and moths, biting  at the air like a fox
Sometimes she desecrates the earth with kumquat  coloured urine
Unfolds every paper toy she can lay her small pointed hands upon –


Life is a series of curtailed impulses
A tense clicking of tongues
A brush which only inks out

the Englishman’s strange probing kisses.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved


Water Babies in the City



Water Babies in the City


Sometimes I feel like the woods are breathing on me, advancing like Great Burnam, trying to get in at the doors and the windows, clamorous and rude like uninvited guests.
She took another swig of house red.
There are dirty stories to be told, but they are all the same. This one is the understory, the one they didn’t print, the seamless way of language, the misunderstood dialectic of the dispossessed.

She had cleaned her nails of the polish that stained them and kept them hard and neat.
He stared at them fixedly as though they were honest.

There is a sifting system for stories. They are a bit like sewage initially. They seep down tubes and gulleys into a giant steaming vat of intentions. This is where things start to rot and bubble.
Then the whole mess is put through a filtration system; layers and layers and months later some nice new clear water is produced, clear of stain and suffering.
It may be slightly tainted, of course. Hormones cannot be removed from water and neither can some ideas.
The water has a memory, except it doesn’t. It has a figurative memory like mirrors.
What she actually said was ‘ I don’t know how I got into it. I just started sleeping around for money.’
But that is very uninteresting to the spirit; that is merely printable and saleable.

She was trying to save herself by selling herself one more time.
The man smiled sympathetically. He probably was thinking of getting her coat.
I can hold so many thoughts at once I am a bubbling stream of thought.

He would sell her story, exposing her ridiculous lifestyle to a public composed of choirboys and commandoes.

I wonder what she felt? I mean, when she did it? That’s what the public would wish to know.

I don’t believe people can go into autopilot. Suicide bombers have some activating force inside them but somewhere inside is a small babbling child kicking its feet in a pool of warm water, hoping to get to the other side.

Humanity does not always recognise its own substance. It sees a mechanised world of androids and alternative intelligence and starts to emulate the actions of robotic forces.

It wants to be dirty, then clean, then dirty. It’s a child without a mother, a mother without a child.
She slept with famous athletes, politicians and her trade name was the name of an Egyptian goddess.

She felt the simulacrum of pleasure. She was a white winged bird, a gazelle, a fern on a windowsill, a white bed full of bullfrogs.
She loved her children.
Wearily, the newspaper magnate stubbed out his cigar and bid her adieu.
He didn’t care for her favours, she was blackened by printing ink already, thumbed and folded and put out for recycling.
No, what he really loved was fishing.
She drifted out and night’s cloak enfolded her, raising her beyond the level of the commonplace crowds, setting her somewhere amongst the moons of Io. Her children would find out soon enough.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights reserved