magic woman.
flowing...life never startles her.
takes each piece of paper she finds
& hides it away
between the pages
of whatever book she
happens to be reading that day.
soul filled with fire:
encapsulating &
changing any & all
that come too close;
whatever man
that thinks he can let the flames
lick his fingers
then pull his hand away,
unscathed.
Oh Nature, sweet dancing girl you
The sun sets gentle as it is painted
and painted over,
a portrait of sliding sky,
in gradients too slow for
notice the painter erase the day's melodies
brooding all the
while the sky finishes its fall
onto the rising night.
He is a quiet man, all
calloused hands and stained foreams,
more accustomed to solitude than
the harsh daylight of scrutiny.
With the precision of an almanac,
the painter finishes, canvas cleaned
of its light and
sliding quiet beneath his blanket of tattered stars,
the man waits
in hope, that tender lunacy,
to find the lady who resides in the corners of his dreams.
He longs to touch her outside his mind's eye,
but all too soon he is asleep
and she is nowhere to be found.
After his breathing evens out, he
rises unconscious from the bed,
shuffling towards the canvas.
Sitting picturesque before the easel
he eases the woman into existence,
champagne beneath his brush.
She never stays longs, though,
leaving with the drop
of her mimosa glass,
bleeding orange onto background and body;
he rushes to catch her oils as she drips between
his fingers.
The painter sighs deep and begins to
cover his work.
Every night his heart breaks
as he paints and paints her over.
When he finally wakes,
dropping the shredded sky from his frame,
he finds the canvas inexplicably different
than how he left it.
It will be forever, it seems,
until their shadows will be allowed to meet,
concrete as a realist's ache
for resolution.
I'm halfway to
A hundred
And I still don't
Know
Why
My soul was
Wound So
Tightly
Wound
Ed
Ted
Ted!
My teacher fought
Against the forces
Imagined, imagination-
-AL
Forces that swept the
Thin gossamer web-
Strand of
FOCUS!
Away.
I jerked awake to
Laughter, the
Unsatisfying kind of
Snickers,
Guffaws,
Kids just trying to survive
Childhood.
"I'm sorry,"
I half-sobbed,
"Would you please
Repeat the question?
I wasn't paying
Attention."
Kindness, sometimes, from
The beetled-brow
Of the series of
Stressed-out adults
Who had the distinct pleasure
Of having Teddy Scheck
Way down there on their
Class list.
Most often it was stern
Consternation. Irritation.
Sometimes, anger.
Shame is anything that
Makes you feel smaller
Than you really are.
Classrooms are battlefields.
Bullies are armies,
And I was at their un-
Mercy.
And time, which seemed to
Hold the infinite expanse
Of its boundless breath,
Exhaled slowly, the squeaky-
Balloon hiss of air escaping
A too-tight orifice.
And I'm swimming in the
Miasma of confusion, self-
Loathing, desperation, and
The incredibly strong urge
To dig for green gold
In my own nose.
Yep.
Welcome to my childhood.
Meanwhile,
OUT IN THE HALL...
Water/bathroom break.
Alphabetically, having "S"
Put me toward the end of the line,
But not "Zemichael" or
"Young, Rachel,"
or "David Woods"
And Dave Woods, whose
Eyes wandered behind
Coke-bottle glasses, and
Who whistled when he said
His 'Ws' was a kid
I could really relate to.
He got bullied 4th.
I was 3rd-most.
Two effeminate boys,
Scott and Mike,
Who played with dolls
With the girls, twirled
Jump ropes and chanted
Chants and had
High voices, and couldn't
Kick at all,
They got picked on an
Unfathomable measure
More than I did,
Although, strangely, they
Seemed much better equipped
To deal with it, or
Ignore it, or
(I don't know)
(And this killed me,
It really did)
When,
I took it all in my heart,
And head, and stomach,
And elbows, and picked
Nose, and bitten-off
Warts in 1st grade, and countless
Accidents and injuries and
Scrapes and bruises
By the plethora,
So that by 9:00 that night,
I was sobbing beneath
My pillow, trying
Not to make noise
In a household of 10.
And Mom, my sweet
Mom, would take me in
Her arms, and say
The most confusingly
Comforting words in
The whole wide world.
"I'm sorry, Teddy,"
She would cry, holding
Me so tightly I knew that
If lightning struck, or
A tornado blew in from
Kansas, no force on
Earth would seperate me
From my Mom's loving
Embrace.
"My sweet, wonderful,
Imaginative, creative,
Funny child,"
She would whisper, the
Only balm to sooth
The cuts from prissy girls'
Tongues that made
Me bunch my fists and
Run away in anger,
Or sometimes lash out
In fury;
The knuckle-rubs from
That asshole Randy, the
Class jock and class
Bully.
Mom's words of
Affirmation healed
The slashes and punctures
And lashes from the
Tongues and eyes and lips
And patience and compassion
Run dry like a well that
Has died of thirst.
But boy, did I have a
Whopping
Imagination.
I went to where
My dreams were stored
During the day.
And put them on
Like phantasmagorical
Clothes.
I rode my bike
Everywhere.
I took off my clothes
And swam in farm ponds.
I chased leopard frogs,
Ate questionable foods/plants;
And swung higher on
The swing than anybody
Else.
I was happy at times.
I could imitate just
About any sound
(Real or imagined).
I did the voices
From cartoons.
(And I STILL do 'em)
My sisters adored me.
I made people laugh
(Often by accident)
I occasionally sat
Still in church, taking in
Pictures stained colorfully
In glass frescoes.
I had a younger
Brother whom I was
Immensely proud of
And who loved me back
As best a brother
Could.
I had a roof, food,
Clean water, safety
From harm, freedom
To pray and worship,
Questionable bathing habits...
Birthday money
(For about an hour, anyway)
And love.
Wow.
I had more as a child
Than about 95% of
The entire world.
Maybe everything that
Happened to me
Brought me to this
Very
Point
In time.
Soul, wounded over time;
Creates a poem that,
Perhaps,
Can help some
Other wounded
Soul.
I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping feted sweat
from the tips of its' fangs
“To Spur You To Run”
so down the darkened hallways and
out to the dirty
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
me oh my, what dim corners you have
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh great bartend, what clouded eyes you have
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver me from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print
“All The Better To Drown You With.”
it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
twists my ribs, thickens the wind
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes
"I Tip Your Service With A Nod"
every block that I stumble by
drips pooling
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which whetted feet find liquor slick
thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the whispered Fury
when I fall down far enough
when my ear is planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
and stretching uncomfortably underneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the molten gutter
"To Hell With Forgiveness"
I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
always dreamed of becoming a star
on the next street corner
you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
but you still wound up center stage
“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”
She came and left swiftly
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
douses candles in gasoline
burning half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
ans listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
I would like a tall glass of chlorine,
to burn my insides clean,
for they are far from pristine,
they are sick and twisted and green,
in this state I cannot be serene,
so give me a glass of chlorine,
to burn my insides clean.
i would like a pack of c4,
to blow down my inner door,
and stomp in with guns blazing,
each devilish thought i be razing,
i should like a pack of c4,
to demolish my inner door.
I should like a bottle of hydrogen,
to open in my mind,
to leave it's burdens lighter,
to make it's thoughts burn brighter,
I should like a bottle of hydrogen,
to make my burdens lighter.
Thin, this window, between our forms
As if we could but reach through
the wide ocean
Thin glass
And I would be by you
And you by me
And time would be somewhere... Somewhere middleways
'Tween night and day
So there we are, and in this midway world
Our dreams: first a moonclad night in the dark wood
Flitting from tree to tree in fickle follow of blue ghostlights
Then in the clearing they are golden, and we lay on the grass
and whisper lovespells with dancing lips
Now to a great tower, a city laid 'neath our feet
We sit on its edge and your face is sidecaught in the glow:
Warm marble, rose sculptures and goldspun curls
We're sinking
Down
Down
Down
A town under the waves, lamp in the murk
All wood and seaspray
We dance in weightless water, and I feel
the only way to stay warm in this frigid deep
is to hold you close
We stir, bleary waking eyes
and I pull you closer
Your smile I meet
your lips with mine
And we fall, once more,
into eachother
Later we will wake apart
But here, in our middleways world,
We can dream
together
everything that
happens now
is pouring rain
banging fists on
window panes
elevated fear overcomes
excavated truths
atrophy is
a blessing
oh just to be weak
only a whimper
of jumping ship
to save yourself
with all the plans
just shot to hell
--the frying pan
is all we know
although the fire
looms below--
bones break as glass
shatters and collide
terrible secrets
drip out of pores
like sweat
and the rain still falls
weaker weaker
fists echo
noiselessly off of
transparent cages
another crack in
the glass
while the rain still falls
--from the fire
looking up
the frying pan doesn't
appear so rough--
glass is broken
bones are broken
and as the rain falls
I am weak at last
give in
that terrible weight
off of sunken shoulders
where did you go
you let me
get this bad
used to be strong
could handle
the world
can hardly stand
anymore
the glass is broken
yet freedom looms
far as ever
I would settle for peace
no chance
no chance
and the rain still falls
I spoke to a wasp today. And he told me his story. He spoke to me about his childhood, and watching his own family being murdered. It was a bright and warm Friday evening. His father had ventured out and flew among the humans that lived in the home of his home. The smell of liquor permeated the air, as did the barbeque that was nearly too done. He drew close to the man of the home, just to watch and observe the scene. The man didn't like it too much. So he swatted him. It didn't hurt him, however, but it did confuse him. And in his confusion he landed upon the man and planted his stinger within him. The man slammed his hand down, cursing as the wasp's father's guts bled out. There was nothing the wasp could do but watch. The woman of the house asked if the man was ok. The man cursed once more and slammed his glass on the ground. The woman became upset and demanded to know why. The man had no answer. He merely just grabbed a gas can, took another ...swig of liquor, and walked up to the wasp's home and began dousing it in gasoline. The woman freaked out, afraid of what was about to happen. The man merely cursed at her as well and shoved her to the ground. When she tried to get back up he kicked her in the face. The blood poured. The wasp's home was now soaked in a lethal liquid. The man had a sinister grin as he glanced at his crying and bleeding woman lying on the ground, and he laughed as he lit a match and threw it on the wasp home. The nest went up in flames, and shortly after the home of the man did too. The little wasp escaped, unable to save the lives of his screaming family being burnt alive. The man merely laughed; the woman lay crying; the nest burnt to ashes; the house burnt down. So now the little wasp is all grown up. And when I asked what he wants to do with his life, all he replied was, "I want to sting people...because it seems that is all every creature is meant to do." ♥
Put your teeth in the glass, baby,
Daddy took a little blue pill
Put your teeth in the glass, baby,
Daddy took a little blue pill
If you won't smoke my white owl
I know the patient in 456A will.
Could it be, that all we
Have our multiple differences?
Or are we all quite the same
And looking through different lenses?
Experiences make us who we are
And tell us how to see.
Different moments in our lives
Can make us who we want to be.
An embarrassing action may cause blush
But cause smiles in the end.
A painful heartbreak deep inside
Will bring greater things and mend.
Looking through glass spectacles
of what our failures have been,
Show us more, and more, and more
Of who we are and when.
So are we really different?
Or all very much the same?
Take a look through another's lenses
And see what gives us our name.
