Dear Pickle,

You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.

Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.

Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.

Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.

And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.

That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.

I am sorry, can you bring her back now?

And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.

We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.

I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother *****-ups for you to father.

Love,
Vinegar.

The scent of metal, a metallic vibration, a slam
A cushion, disturbed by many tragedies, this cushion, I know has stories
A circle that steers these stories’ beginnings, middles and ends
Oh, the ends are the best from the narrator’s view
The narrator who has control of the steering of the stories
Who knows all the tragedies the cushions have seen,
Has even been the one to orchestrate such a beautiful scene
An unwilling but manipulated snapshot of a wrinkle in life
There’s no point in trying to see out, the glass is too foggy
Symbolic- the characters can’t see what is waiting for them, the other option
It has been steamed up by the narrator who used his circle to steer them to a parking lot
A metallic vibration felt buzzing through their bodies on the cushion
A pang of uncertainty, but manipulation wins…
A slam as the narrator progresses the plot and the glass windows begin to fog
The metal machine, seemingly unmovable and monstrous becomes victim to his heat
To his desire to have the plot progress as he wants it to- every tragedy is the same
Used, and disposed in the most brutal manner
He is serial, predictable
Once the car stops rocking and the cushion has gained another tale
The scent of metal fills the vehicle
But it’s not the smell of the vehicle, just the metal

In my dreams she is an angel
who comes down to me from the night sky
to sooth a heart that burns like fire
to calm a mind that will not sleep
to calm my fears and tell me that I will love again.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)

The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.

Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.

But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.

The Banker's Fate

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.

But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.

He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.

Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.

The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"
And solemnly tolled on his bell.

He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was the fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!

To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.

Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.

"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!"
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half a day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!"

There’s some comfort
In a Cigarette –
Slack on the lips,
Balanced as a Newton’s cradle,
The smoke rising,
A heavy silver blue
Lifting and settling in the air; a toxic mist,
Emerging – volcanic - from the singed
Yellowing paper.
And the mind clears and
Slows, for a moment and settles as the nicotine infuses
With the brain.
And it feels
Good.
You tap the ash and it falls, dissolving into hot powder –
you take another draw.
Breathe deep.

“Smoking’s bad for the health” someone says.
As the smoke -silver blue –
Travels down the throat, into the lungs; inflating -
Exhale (more refined now)
“I know” you reply.
Give some excuse or other, for the habit –
Needs to be kicked -
Their eyes flash to
Yellowing skin which
reflects the yellowing paper cradling the ash
encasing veins of red.
Smiling, a crooked smile, you take another draw
“the last one.” you say,
“good.” They reply.

And there’s some beauty to be found in
The silver blue smoke pirouetting in the air
A poison, personally selected.
Some assurance in this perpetual act of self-destruction,
Some comfort in knowing what it is that’s killing you –
Though it takes some mystery out of life -
Conducting one’s own mortality can be quite the security.

Inhale again,
Turning the filter,
Ash drops,
The word Marlboro
(If there’s some money in the bank)
Stares back.

A Cigarette is a sin to be shared or taken in private,
A true pleasure which leaves one wholly unsatisfied -
Something in which to partake with others; the rich, the poor, the lame -
Those who would not normally give you a second glance, nor perhaps you them -
“Got a Cigarette I could ***?” they ask
“Sure” you say
As you reach into your pocket,
Pull out the packet,
Weathering,
And hold out an offering.

In that exchange
Alone
Is a bond born, a moment of connection,
some common ground.
You turn away,
“Smoking’s bad for the health.”
Someone says, to them,
“I know.” They reply, give some excuse
And then smile
That crooked smile.

This weather’s got me writing poetry again

                ; because it’s making me think of you.

I like your storms
splattering raindrops and
               thunder that cracks open the sky
but I want to be with you on your grey days.
I’ll laugh with your sunshine
and swordfight your lightning,
but I want to be with you on your grey days
; when nothing much is happening—
            except your eyes are clouded over.

I can’t stop comparing you to weather
which sounds ridiculous,
except for the way your personality is like the wind
I can feel it
             I can feel it
                          I can feel it
but I never seem to be able to catch it,
or do it justice with my words.

It sounds ridiculous
except for how you’re a forecast for my day.
            When your eyes reflect
bright blue sky and fluffy cumulus clouds,
I don’t remember how to frown;
and when your storms rage
            I know to stand strong against the wind.

on your grey days
as much as I’ll want to persuade that sunshine smile
to come out to play,
I’ll sit quietly with you if you want,
and let you be nostalgic,
in that way that
                                          always makes you sad
                                     but never makes you cry.
like how mist isn’t quite rain.