Carnival Aptitude by contemporary American author Greg Boyd - 63 prose poems/micro-fictions illustrated with many photomontages.

Carnival Aptitude straddles the middle ground between poetry and fiction, so in a way, partakes of both.

I'll let Greg Boyd's work speak for itself. Here are eight pieces from the collection along with the montage art of Hannah Höch (unfortunately none of Greg's photomontages are on the internet).

BONJOUR
I take off my shoes and throw them into the river. I take off my clothes and light them on fire. I cut off my hair with a pair of scissors. I shave off my beard with a razor. A man crosses the bridge on a bicycle. As he peddles by, he says good-morning.

LOVERS
Taking showers alone every day-that's not what life's all about-so a man carved himself a lover out of soap. Imagine his joy, his ecstasy at being wrapped in her slippery soft embrace. As for the rest, it's what one would expect: a steady melting away until, hand in hand, they disappeared together down the drain.



BEE-KEEPING
A giant bee flies through the window of my bedroom, lands on my chest and regurgitates a sickly sweet liquid into my mouth. After it leaves, I realize they've turned my bed to wax. With difficultly I wriggle loose from stiff sheets, pull myself onto my feet, and escape into a world of sunlight and flowers.

THE SPOON
When I wake I find a spoon nestled on the pillow against my ear, metal warm as flesh. In its hollow belly I see an eye. And in its eye I feel a tongue. As the spoon trembles on its stem, a shiny flower swaying under faint breath, it vibrates into a hum that fills the room with a voice like light.



THE DOLL
On a shelf I find a most unusual toy: an antique doll with a hinged waist and a swiveling head which allow it to bend backward and turn its head so that it faces forward while looking back through its legs. The expression on the porcelain face seems pinched and unpleasant, the contortions of the doll hideous. When my friend returns, I ask her about the figure. "Don't be silly," she says, "it was a gift." When I ask from whom, she presses her lips together slightly and says, "From you."

THIRST
Add me to the list of mythical thirty men-for even as I speak these words my lips crack and my throat purses noose-tight, like the sand-sipping waist of an hourglass. Though I quaff non-stop, pausing only for breath, though I cool my gullet with deep droughts of the source, though I suckle the enormous breasts of posterity and doom . . . I am thirsty.



LUST
More than anything I wanted a shovel. then a hoe. I found I couldn't exist another day without a push broom. Afterwards, I dreamed only of a rake. I was enslaved by a spade, bewitched by a shiny pair of shears. Alone at night I coveted my neighbor's lawn mower. One after the next I had them all. And still I wasn't happy. Must I admit my passion for a garden hose? Should I then say that I risked everything, only to throw it all away for the love of a bicycle pump??

AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I spent my childhood packing, then emptying out my flutecase. Between transactions, I milked the encyclopedia and nibbled on the linings of my coat. Now papers rise up around me like Old Testament towers waiting for vanity's earthquake as I travel under various passports from one strange country to the next. When I don't speak the language, I nod, smile, gesture, a marionette dancing.


American author Greg Boyd