Liisi Kilpelä
Liisi Kilpelä
Nov 23, 2015

I was born dry out of a cognitive womb
All our beginnings are wild but I consider mine
That of a keep most blasphemous, a plague rat
In the subcranial sewer of billowing steam
With no need to repair the vulvar frame
My powers grew out of stolen sleep, sweet
Traumatic tissue, I am a wolf beheaded and
Embedded in the bloodstream, rustling alongside
Platelets and erythrocytes

Dear Mrs School Headmistress,
Nov 8, 2012

Dear Mrs Dinner Lady,
My little son doesn‘t like eggs.
So please don’t make him eat any,
Or he’ll get spots on his arms and legs.

Dear Mr P.E. Teacher,
My growing son doesn’t like sport.
So please don’t make him play any,
Or his face will swell up and contort.

Dear Mrs School Headmistress,
My teenage son doesn’t like tests.
So please don’t make him sit any,
Or he’ll get a rash on his tummy and chest.

Dear Mr Big Boss in charge,
My grown-up son doesn’t like work.
So please don’t make him do any,
Or his body might just go berserk.

There was a war in old Ireland and the headmistress of Dublin was a very rich woman indeed
Nov 25, 2013

There was a war in old Ireland and the headmistress of Dublin was a very rich woman indeed with her husband General Dunkirk. It was once again the potato famine and so her family she often told of were made up of the finest musicians with violins and pianos, she went out to Scotland to see how the war and the plague were and to track down her family.

Earlier two springs ago....Her maidens loved her so and one day, she found one of thee old queen's daughters saying "You rarely talk about them much. Why don't you go and visit?" Just then the duchess, or the head mistress as they'd call her in Ireland was troubled for there was a great plague in Scotland and soon to be a war trade in Dublin for slaves. General Dunkirk it seemed had went against Ireland and its nation for Irish slaves, and the poverty never vanquished.

Now there was a fine young man and woman who had a daughter. Her name, was Gloria Hardt. They were the finest in all the land before the mexican slave trade for the potato famine. Dunkirk the first had finally told all the Mexicans to go home. Thus the famine.

There was a big pounding on their door and the duchess of Dublin, Ireland was knocking. The moment he saw who it was he took a great violin and thrust it upon her head after screaming after her and so she left.

She was dressed as an old maiden. Yes, poorly dressed and soon the old man who took up the broken violin looked out the window and saw her giving the poor round pieces of gold. So he took his violin, threw it out the window and never played it again. Ever....

Jun 24, 2013

My car-my vessel-my body, in dreams
driving up from a dusty parking lot skirting a glassy blue lake,
up,     up        up       the hill
to a mansion as ridiculously grandiose as the white was stark and cold.
As I stepped out to look for my love, I didn't notice
that a faceless someone drove my car back down to the lake.

Perched atop a perfectly cut, sloping green lawn stood tables laden with a feast fit for
Gods and Goddesses.
He sat away from me, back slouched - hands busy - eating      eating      eating.
I spitefully grabbed my own flimsy paper plate, loaded it with everything I saw, and before my eyes
the plates turned to porcelain with golden edges,
the table sagged with glistening pot roasts, triumphantly layered lasagnas, crisp, beckoning salads.
I ate       ate       and ate.
The lawn was dotted with men and women, sculpted in their cruel beauty.
My love was nowhere to be found.
I went inside;

past the crowds of gorgeous young women giggling in the vast kitchen,
up the creamy wooden banister, ivory-carpeted stairs, the bathroom
was white and pristine, the toilet seat baring its ceramic lips.
The door burst open with the presence of an enormously fat white man,
blue eyes bursting from a red ruddy face, gut spilling out of his crisp-ironed shirt and
pleated beige trousers, which he unbuckled
and proceeded to split me open, mercilessly I was shoved against the cold
ceramic, sacred flower throbbing with pain, body-screams erupting from my wide-open mouth
screaming               screaming.
He finished what he started and disappeared. I crashed;
charged down the stairs, screaming for help in the faces of women lounging
on expensive sofas, they grinned knowingly
and began whispering.

I ran outside, where the lawn was now empty, yet some of those girls in the kitchen
tasted my fear and remembered their own, ran with me
into the wall of the Headmasters and Headmistresses,
dressed in slinky fabrics and fresh from new haircuts, their cruel
cruel beauty.
There was one of them for each us, they grabbed our shoulders
their triangular brows plummeted, and their eyes turned yellow;
hungry, their mouths opened wide and,
like a horror movie our souls were sucked from our gasping lips, their cruelly beautiful bodies
shivered in orgasm, their faces illuminated with our spirits. I felt empty, terrified and then- immediately
as if I was devoid of a soul this whole time, and the calm that entered in its place
glistened like steel.

I was back inside. Weeks had passed.
We lounged in the elegant parlors, and the barbarically handsome men teased us;
"Show us your sexy face, ladies," and we took turns batting our lashes and preening,
trying our best to seduce the merciless wrought-iron of their smiles.
"You've got a good one," they said to me, "it would look fantastic with a cigarette."
"Can I have one, then?" I asked coyly, and they gave me a Slim and lit it for me, and-
carefulofthelipstick- I dragged it long and slow, plumes of smoke rising above me
in the soulless air.
I looked down to see that I already had one-pale gleaming paper poison-in the other hand
which I carelessly dropped
and ground into the ivory carpet.

More weeks passed. We lounged
in parlors, chattered like hens in the vast kitchens,
watched silly films nestled on those lush sofas,
strutted in our red lace panties down the furnished halls,
and to be constantly followed
by men, slammed against the walls at any moment
clothes ripped off, petals ripped off of those flowers until they were nothing but stems,
wham - bam - done, finished. Go get some clothes on, Sweetie, you look like hell.

Months haughtily sashayed past us before we knew it.
Lounge, chatter, slam, wham, bam, get some clothes on.
We smiled without a care and swung our hips on our way out.

The first time I tried to escape was a bust. Perhaps it wasn't long until my soul
tentatively tried to crawl through the layers of caked powder.
We scrambled over the rocks and roots of the surrounding forest, and they followed;
eyes yellow and starving.
We didn't make it.

There were more barbecues and bonfires, lazy smoke curling up towards the sky.
They got my sister, too, I'm sure it was her
though her waist had shrunk and her hair bleached blonde.
We are each others' last straws, nothing
will ever happen to her
when I am around. Nothing
will ever happen
to me.
Together our souls had a chance to
feed off of one another, to gain their strength
to keep trying through every slam-bam-wham, to keep growing.

One day it was enough, we could feel it
rippling through the sinew of our legs, burning through our fingertips, we walked
through the kitchen, the chatter and the giggles,
walked down the hallways, praying silently
to make it without a SLAM-WHAM-BAM
to our huge, extravagant bedroom,
closets bursting with boasting clothes-scraps, huge bed cushioned
with down comforters and beaded pillows.
We grabbed the foreign fancy suitcase from beneath the bed and stuffed a few things in, and
I saw the corner of an Alpaca green shawl I had come across in Ecuador.
I remembered-grabbed it, stuffed it in, we headed out the door
walked down the dusty driveway
walked, walked, walked down to the lake.
Our cars had vanished.
I woke up.

nothing here but a summary of a vivid nightmare I had a couple nights ago; sometimes it's therapeutic to make a poem out of it which helps release the terror of its vibrancy
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