Multiple braids equal multiple roots,
in the direction my fingers scoots.

Loose braids,
robust cornrow braids in a stack,
chanting all the way down my back.

A loose rope,
or a robust bridge.
You know which root to take….

Justine Louisy
Copyright © Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved

The loud yawn of time
when you are held tight
is petrifying

An indifference to your captivity
as nature sees to normalcy
reveals our fleshy entropy
as nothing more than energy
to wax and wane

Beached pebbles
on an infinite shore
to pretend more is orange ignorance

There is solace, I guess
in acceptance,
but our primal, primate arrogance
prevents much

My shadows are out there fighting.
The click of my fingers are shouting not
humming at every beat.
The hairs on my head shedding their
curly laughter.
My vision is chasing the intruding floaters.
My throat is frying pins and needles for my supper.
There are eroded rocks in my mouth.

My breath the stench of life.

I hope you smell it as you walk past.


Justine Louisy

Copyright © Justine Louisy 2017
All Rights Reserved

Let me sell you a fraction of truth
slanted to fit the froth-rage box
you live in

I’ll dress it in grave tones,
even implicate a scapegoat
so your priapic blast
has a focus

I’ll use fonts from Comic Sans
to Times New Roman
to ensure you bite the hook

When you look in our mirror
the hate will be palatable,
tasty,
wholesome

and as we gorge we’ll starve

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

Pause

For thought or effect,
the end’s the same

Played your hands in the game like always

But

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

And where did the vitriol get you,
old man?

To a better place?
Where fat white women sing your praise?

While at home your carbon copies
bust their lips
when the home team loses?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

You waiting for something?
Applause for working a nine to five
and allowing a fraction
of your take home to be spent on living,
raising?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

I’ll stand over you now
As you stood over me
Instead of raining blows
I’ll let the misery of your truth
Catch in your chest
and fight for the cause

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

a heart:
i see i have made plenty of poets
but not so very good
poetry

a ****:
i see i have made plenty of poetry
but not so very good
poets

empty as an unlit bulb
with no lamp shade
lonely in the centre of the room
overlooked

good days
bitter sweet
but you know
it’s merely a treat

head in a bad place
buried in the sand
deflated balloon
tasted so bland

gaze into the distance
stare at the stillness
glance at your feet
just take a seat

try good thoughts
on the bad days
breathe just a little bit deeper
collapse and feel the rays

stare at the sky
and just try
try to connect

why do we stare at the clouds
imagining our dead relatives can see us
who fed us that lie
is that why I always stare at the sky

don’t read your book of mindfulness
lift the quilt
tuck every hair
can’t see me?
like you care

you never see it in her eyes
the discomforting shadow
who rests beneath the disguise

prop her up with bamboo
like a limp old flower
so she seems shiny and new

babbling to those who don’t care
and to those who do,
she will not share

reliving in flashes
disturbed by each sting
her heart has turned to ashes
unable to forget anything

as she clutches the wooden bench
she doesn’t feel the splinter
but it doesn’t quite compare
to the pain she felt that winter

The crazy things we did
The late nights we had
The days we shared
And the things we had
So real it was, it sparkled
So out of the world it seemed
And just like the movies looked
A reminiscence of the past
A reminder of what is
And a vision of what shall remain