Down the wire, hail from Oberland
You say: these Huns can’t make a map.
There’re roads here that don’t really exist.
I say: tell me about the Black Forest.
You say: flat, all flat. We think
we’re in a video loop.

sss, ssss, sss
(Can you hear me? Are you there?)

I say: I’m here.
You say: These Teutons, man, they’re tripping.
We do Macbeth, they laugh.
We do Beckett, they cry.
They bring us beer, and, baby,
There’s no veg in the whole Habsburg kingdom.
sss, sss, sss
(Can you hear me?)
How ‘bout you, Honey?

I say: Oh, you know
Liminal spaces interior deconstruction
narrative disconnectivity.
You say: Groovy. What’s that mean?
I say: We’re all gonna die talking.

sss, sss, sss
(What’d you say? I lost you.)

I say: the feminists talking to the French talking to the Freudians.
You say: Far out. He ain’t heavy, he’s my analyst.
I say: Right. I miss you. It’s cold here.
You say: I dream of London skies and your milky thighs.
Send me my Rent C.D., right?

Auf wiedersehen, Sus-Sus-Sussudio


Elizabeth Rosen

In addition to being a writer, at various times in her life Liz has been a backpacker, waitress, freelance editor, college professor, hamburger flipper, mail-sorter, step-parent, dog-rescuer, and receptionist who collected the payment from prostitutes to pay for their ads at the back of an independent newspaper. Her fiction has appeared in Xavier Review, Stoneboat, Litro New York, and a few other spots. Her study on apocalyptic fiction and film, Apocalyptic Transformation, did not include a chapter on zombie apocalypses, so she missed the boat on that one.

View Profile Send Email