Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jan 2017 Isilwen Grier
Leandra
YOU
filled her with life.
Breathed air in her lungs.
Gave her a reason to live.
But
YOU
**** the air away,
so she was barely breathing.
**** the reason to be happy and to live,
turned it to hate and hell.
Then
YOU
**** the life from her soul.
This one wild eyed child,
with the breath like
gin,
those cedar branches between teeth,
those handfuls of eyes,
those broken whispers and spit on my eyelashes,
a kiss between a day broken like cigarettes in the package.

Could you make love to a series of words,
or a painting on the wall,
or maybe a laugh between ***** sheets where our skulls bounce off each other,
could you love a dead smile?
 Dec 2013 Isilwen Grier
st64
such a cool dude



1. on believing
There are those who scoff at the schoolboy, calling him frivolous and shallow. Yet it was the schoolboy who said "Faith is believing what you know ain't so."



2. on genius
Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered-- either by themselves or by others.



3. on bereavement
A man's house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And when he casts about for it he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential-- there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost.... It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster.



4. on mischief
I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery either, not by a long sight.
I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me, I couldn't stand it.



4. on conscience
I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on -- s'pose you'd a done right and give Jim up; would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad-- I'd feel just the same way I do now.
Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right, when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?



5. on superstition
I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot tower and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway, it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.



6. on escape
I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me and I can't stand it. I been there before.



7. on hypocrisy and religion
We all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall.
The Shepherdson's done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching -- all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free grace, and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.



8. on simplicity
Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.



9. on humanity
Let us consider that we are all partially insane. It will explain us to each other; it will unriddle many riddles; it will make clear and simple many things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties and obscurities now.



10. on army
That's what an army is -- a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers.




                                                            ­                                       *by Mark Twain








S T - 16 dec 13
love the boldness of Twain.

not everybody's cuppa.. but hey, see me crying? nah :)






sub-entry: unicorn

a knock at the door
grey figure opens.. very, very tall

1.
slits of tall-eyes concierge perusing hooded-newcomer bearing gift
furtive-eyes in a head over-drilled with equations
the visitor waits and watches
intently catching the distant-tinkling of a child's laughter
peeps round the bend..
twinkling-eyed gramps giving gifts to grand-kids round the tall-tree

2.
silver-hair leads the way slowly up plush carpet-steps, all deep-red
not aware how regal-opulence glares at the hungry-livraison
of ornate wood-patterns etched into the sides of the box
a single hair-strand is the currency to secret-entry
the most unlikely-key stands in the doorway
upon the head of the child, it needs but one length
with tweezers, silver-head places in painstaking-tremors
there's a light-whirring deep inside and click, click, click..
the sides flay open like tiny-wings
and then, it's right there.. it's opening up its secrets
the old man, who waited all his life to see this.. almost has a glimpse
when something happens..

oh my, what is it ? ? ?     (gaping in disbelief)
it's........ the unicorn
oh! you may leave now, thank you
but a swift-stab leaves silver-head spluttering
holding onto his neck as his life-force spurts away, uncontrollable
                                        in violent-spasms
tall-eyes quick-senses an iota amiss within its radar-view
from the running-steps down the muted red-stairs, cy-dog barks
out the front-door, in pursuit of dodger-stealer who drops the flick-knife
into wide road, sudden-bus whacks him down
tall-eyes look down into the eyes of a dying man
(what have I done?  I needed only two minutes more to.....)
now, quick....get away, get away... !


3.
mythical twist as plot thickens
the box lies there, distant-sirens wail
eyes slit, instantly calculating
hot on heels of this reliable lean-machine
cops push the limit and close the corners
a volley of shots and he.. falls
box tumbling to the ground, rolling a bit.. then stops
red-lights flash remotely, like a dream caught in cold-syrup

with one shoulder now missing and half his head on the sidewalk
he hobbles with the gift to the bridge, his sensors pick up the bleat of the ferry
and he manages to...
...........................and throw it in the frozen-lake
its weight breaks the cracked-surface
                and sinks.. slowly.. down
                                  down
                     down
          down
down
                                               d o w n..

there, it rests in peace
till..


one year later, a young boy tests the safety of that frozen-water
stomping feet to keep warm and face clad in half-balaclava
a sight unlike any other meets his eyes.. and..
(when) he stoops to reach for it..
 May 2013 Isilwen Grier
me
When the skies are grey, my worries fade away
For only in the darkest of nights can I shine bright like the day

And when there is a raging storm I shall peacefully sleep
Though in the brightest of times, I will always weep
You could slap me across the face,
Knock me to the floor,
Scream into my ear,
Say things that strikes me right to the core,
And all I would do,
Is just stand up and thank you for your time.
To sleep -- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
For once your life's candle is but a nub
Your fate has been decided and you cannot run
And you wonder what happened to bulletproof weeks
In your arms, just building sky-castles of words
And as you open your mouth, the raven first speaks
Telling of cabbages and kings, and gentle demon birds
Playing an asphyxiated song of angel's wings
Leaving me intoxicated and feathered with silver crowns
And as the breath from my lungs makes rings
Of vapor in the air, the mist settling on ancient frowns
The future runs through me now to capture
Absolutely clawed leviathans, found in rapture.
I was told about the goodness of men,
Their valour, fortitude and chivalry
Riding in on gleaming horseback.
They would lead poorer souls into battle,
Liberate distressed ladies from gilded cages
And stave away the beasts of sin.

When I heard these marvelous tales
A fierce hunger awoke within me.
I began to search for an ivory tower
To lock myself in
That a man so great might come to find me.

I thought that I had met such a man
His armour resplendent,
His smile easy and compliments quick.
He led me forth with promises of fortune.
He presented me with crimson roses,
And oft he sang to me in sweet voice.

I was satiated, my hunger quelled
With what I thought to be a golden hero.
But as the roses waned and his voice wilted,
I found that he had faults and secrets like any other-
That his bravery was bruised with cowardice.
In fact, he was absolutely ordinary,
And as God-fearing as the rest of us.
I was trying a different style in my writing class. Here's what came of it.
All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.

We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.

His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.

He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.

It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.

I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.

We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.

We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.

Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."

I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.

We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.

It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.

I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.

I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.

I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?

He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.

I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.

He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.

I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.

I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.

There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.

God kicked back and swigged a PBR
     while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
     over the ditch by the installation fence.

He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.

I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.

He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.

All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.

I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.
Part II in a series.
Peek through the bushes
Look through the vines
What lies there in the clearing?
Bleached white and draped in green strands
A mouse climbs over
Worms squirm under
A fox pup comes along and sniffs around
Nudging a white bowl in curiosity
But look! now the bleached object moves
A few pale digits twitch
The bowl rolls over and its plain to see
This is no jumble of old dry sticks
This is not a set of hoops and a ball
It's a sleeping skellington
No, don't worry; it's not dead
It's a living skellington, Daddy!
4/2/13
Next page