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Charlotte Graham Sep 2012
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
    her eyes burst wide.

Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.

Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.

******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.

Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.

At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...

Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
     The dishwater weeps.

Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.

The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.

Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.

She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.

Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.
Inspired by "The Colonel" ( because of its graphic detail but defamiliarization in use, using delicate words like lace to describe something gory. These events are true, only paraphrased.
Charlotte Graham May 2012
The bruise on my ankle,
from three days ago,
unloading my trunk,
when the suitcase wheels
slam into it
scraping the skin
and leaving bruises--

reminds me of all my other wounds
my battle scars and gaping wounds
so many over so little time,

The largest scars surface
so easily now,
and I remember them
if only for a moment
just to remember
where I came from
and who I am.

I'm left with aching insides,
fire licks up the back of my throat,
my nose stuffed up,
and my eyes and shirt still damp.

I press my toes into the bruise
on my ankle,
from the suitcase wheels
three days ago,
and relish the temporary pain,
the physical pain,
the pain that will fade
in a matter of days.
Charlotte Graham May 2012
Candles flicker,
dark room thicker,
breath bubbles
in my lungs,
suppress a giggle,
heart flutters.
Internal torment,
ceaseless pounding,
makes me stutter.
Sixteen-year-old dreams
of rom-coms and foot pops
and sunset walks
make me shudder.
It's this gentle flutter,
elusive and exhausting,
mind wandering,
pulse dancing in my veins,
a different kind of fascination,
or maybe hesitation,
and crouching aspiration,
that makes me stutter.
A quick pucker,
and this different kind of flutter
will open the shutters.
Charlotte Graham Apr 2012
His lips move, stumbles over words.
Long pause

Professor seems concerned
for his obvious lack of intelligence,
her eyebrows lowered.

I wonder what it would feel like
to grab the thin iPod from the desk,
and fling it against the wall.
How many pieces would it break into?

I wonder what it would feel like
to grip his greasy hair,
and slam his head,
just once,
onto the peeling table top?

I smile to myself and cross my arms,
the fantasy playing out again and again.
I become markedly more violent while ***-ing. Just a glimpse into my twisted, hormonal brain.
Charlotte Graham Apr 2012
Can't sleep again.
Guilt in my head,
spinning, leaping,
autumn leaves,
bullfrogs and song lyrics.
Dice or bingo *****,
which one comes up first?
Again, again,
remember to slow down,
and Olivar favorite parts.
When they were ours,
when we belonged.
log, sixty-six percent,
percentage of original,
original sin, seven sins, se7en,
Sin of Cortez,
tea, teaz me,
Olivar favorite parts.
Can't sleep again.
The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas.
Salem, O.
Greyhound, stick-on roses,
cigarette smoke,
choke in my lungs,
stink on my clothes,
desperation in skinny jeans
and step-dads tranquilizers,
the open window beckons,
sleeping beauty, Rapunzel.
Tangled web,
Charlotte with 8 legs,
and a Durok below,
hounds howl, bellow, yodel
at the moon above,
desperate for a life long gone,
adventures never known.
Indiana Jones, satchel and lasso.
Or was it a whip?
my brain when I can't sleep
Charlotte Graham Mar 2012
Take a few deep breaths, then tell me what you felt.
It was a few short weeks before the invasion.
At least one had to concede the possibility of such a thing.
I denied it; I’d have known.
Yes, there is one, and this year, it falls on a Wednesday.
Four more hours until I get a break
I’m going to, uh, go and, uh, find something to eat.
the first streaks of the morning sun began to dry the dew from our decks
The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air.
He'd been careful; he was trying to prove that was possible to live without killing.
What was she doing with this new guy?

And in that second, I began to understand her.
Every lover admires his mistress, though she will be very deformed of herself
She was growing a little stout, but it did not detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture.
She was cute, in a child-like way.
From where I sit, you look more like a kitten.
So if anyone mysteriously hates me, that's why?
Get out of my way, *****.
You always say that,
Don't you dare leave this room,
That's not what I would do.

What the **** was that?
I was gonna go with 'unexpected', but 'cluster ****' works, too.
You fell out of the sky,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
It seemed like it lasted a long time, but it probably didn’t.
the decline was punctuated by some major rebellions.
This period is believed to be the time when souls of children visit the earth.
Conservative bloggers sparked a national controversy.
Since that time, information about the heavens has been visible.
The clinical importance has yet to be established.

And that's been well over a hundred and fifty years.
My heart skipped a beat.
I tensed, because I knew what that meant.
There was more at stake.
If I failed, I could hardly blame the tools.
Just try and make me go back.

I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time
She waited, hearing nothing but breathing during the pause on the other end.
As if he was making sure I was real this time, and not another dream.
But the kind of dreams they have; those end when we die
But this wasn’t the time to pick apart my obituary.
This was composed of "Found" language -- random library books, random text from my personal library, and random text from books I wrote.
Charlotte Graham Mar 2012
Self-destructive broken infatuation.
Seeking redemption in every reflection,
Something worth clutching
interior quality worth keeping.
She sheds her skin
of lipstick, purple and frills
long hair and heels.
Applies an eyeliner mask,
Expanding the void in her ears,
and screams fervent spasticity
in an '88 Beamer after dark.
Sewing on a smile
As she submerges into her skinny jean costume,
Overtaking her uncertainty with spectacle.

In the Forest of seniors,
she thought she saw authentic attraction
in a kiss with less lips and more teeth.
A drummer with a conscience tells her,
the power out and rain pouring down,
he's looking for an easy target.
A year goes by, maybe she forgets.
She tries it again, the kiss just the same.
He says he's got another girl,
but it doesn't work out, and if she's available,
He'd love to hang out some time.
She never replies, forgets about him.
She walks into Costco, a smile on her face,
feels it fall like water nailed to a wall.

Cheap Canadian whiskey, no ice, no chase
in a Sierra Nevada tumbler
in a stale stranger's house.
**** past midnight,
falling into the walls,
narrating the motions.
Where's the ******* door?
A bombshell in department store lingerie.
Glass to lips, just to fill the silence.
He grabs her *** going upstairs.
Heat clings to the sheets,
Can't afford A/C,
Factory linoleum is heaven.
Half-uttered excuses go unnoticed.

She shivers on a bench beside
a black-dyed blond guitar player,
black nails and eyeliner,
husky tee shirt, sleeves cut off.
She's feeling a little gross,
cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes,
the taste of his mouth is sickening,
so she turns her face away.
Hides behind her pride,
As her clothes fall aside.
Tryst with a trailer park,
shallow musings lacking words,
bite marks on her neck.

She ships him off to San Francisco,
clings to an ex-addict,
pretty face, hair longer than hers,
with Hope for a name.
Shatters on a mattress on the floor,
and a fifteen minute break.
Fate rides Greyhound,
Falls in love with long distance.
A boy with Liberty spikes, skinny jeans
and naked with a red guitar.
Her best friend weaves words
better than she can, she feels worthless.
Shatters the morning after her birthday,
in the arms of a man like a brother.

Two years gone by,
She's tired of the mask,
sick of countless endings,
and not enough beginnings.
Two years of idiocy,
of love and love lost,
and in two weeks,
she's back where she started from.
But this time, she's pushing back,
standing tall, and another mask
is in the trash.
Two more years,
and her feet hit the pavement.
She's not sixteen anymore.
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