I love the way you laugh.
It sounds like a dog throwing up.

I want to run my hands through your hair.
I bet it's as soft as a chinchilla's fur.

I love your height.
How it makes you look like you're the genetic product of Nick Jonas and a giraffe.

I love your eyes.
You're so full of ****, that even your eyes are brown.

The sunny time's no old news
She is doing the walking in her
instant replay just pray for her
The Instant "Karma Shoes"

Any or too many Travelers' Advice
       ---    ....   _   _gone.. down
You set your own sunset like a price

A lovely lady bringing out
Her sunset went lower down her
body waves
What's inside us that craves?
It's time for you to figure out
her clues

Like he's the detective

A mind is a terrible thing to waste
Being selective pickier
The colors of the sunset change tricky
Burning heart love can be massive
What lines ahead of both of them
The crimes build like a guild

To run or to paint a lovely stay put
Eyes move the sunset
Like a crystal rock shield
Medieval love don't move
Changes the sun yellow yield
The women so beautiful
as they are to hold
  The King-set the chair or cheer
drinking
International  lip to lip he gets
The waitress jumps in an instant
Him or the hugs of bears or  beers

In her honor the Tapestry
What an artistry pink reds
burnt orange
The Venus of Dynasty

Instant Karma thinks he's
the Genious that prodigy
It will get you in your
boxers inside
Like a top student of biology
Like she's the
instant pudding smooth
To mix movie buff
The network like a NetFlix
She had another brainstorm
That's another flavor
puddling to fix
What are you waiting for?
What a gentleman opening
up her door
The Business workers, metals of hearts
Like steel robotic digging for metal heart
the undertakers tearing words apart
The true pledge leaders and
pitter scatter
heartbreakers
Was better watching the
Dog breeders your watch
Something changed at midnight
Cinderella without her clock

Who are the dreamers waiting for there love the sunset
It hot you don't get it yet? You need to cool off

The chocolate to die for the vanilla we cry for
In an instant, he opens her most dangerous door
Watch your heels clicking time bomb floor

You decide the bet never the ring box set
Lord of the rings we are never ready
at the same time near the sunset

The Dragon Lady like a picnic of flies
Vanilla sky

Dinner at eight Jean Harlow
How did she get into the picture
Don't ask why?

Just mellow transcend the prime
picture yellow
Like wings, you smile the butterfly
Your steps will get you just realize

In his Gucci shoes in the sandals
That sunflower hits her every hour
The instant smile resort
Be a sport, the sunset goes down
Can we change someone's heart
Another bone to throw dog watchers
X-Box you're moving to watch your
weight watchers
Your sunset all blood sweat and
tears beard trimming

The Dalmatian keeps taking your spots

How many times to be outfoxed
That sunset will be my last lick shot
Another heart to repair
Have dignity it's hard to work miracles
Don't fall for Autumn
when its the summertime

Her pink blush you heard it through
the grapevine wine
I heard her through the grapevine
How many times did she want him to be mine?

Sweet Caroline loves her lemonade
Flowers at her stand how lovely
Adds character like a big fun parade
They are  growing how her brain works
losing hope
The trees wake you up the color's alive

She's blooming innocent
until we meet again my sunset after 5
  The first time so instantly I saw her face
Those instant messages you need to feel
to regain consciousness your
skin of a  baby seal

She's the cloud passing her
whip cream delicious
But you have been whiplashed
Love should be clean something
cruel leads to mean

Seeing the change to have perished
The sunset disappears when my love
grows deeper it moves to vanish

But someone plays with your head
like a game *Instant Karma
No time for daydreaming
Like a bundle of cute Pomskies
Part huskies and Pomeranians
The sunset is coming
In the strangest place
You've been backhanded
the card game kingdom

Like a demonic joke
Or going broke life is a
comic book Fandom
I phone ring every day
in June

But your not ready its way too soon
Another instant Karma I Tunes
Miss Apple Jubilee so materialistic
you had me
The tapestry box
Poems of letters paradox
Who is truly the go-getter
Someone is springing like a
change of season
The four seasons love liaisons
For the right reasons
Like a new renovation
Internationally speaking
the whole entire
Sunset lips look divine waiting wet
Please don't dampen her spirit
To Remember September to relive it

The Morning glory Sapphire

Her energy got riveting so cheek razzled
Like the magician lost his love facts
Instant Zazzle Red Riding hood
Looking down going to Grandmas house
But down and out like the sunset of the Gods
How the sunset keeps coming love is more puzzling?*

This is a small figment of your imagination
A small town is divided like division
But the huge love
Came with the Divination
Ruled by the bark and paws mission
Something got caught
Bone to pick near her sunset
They left the love was too much
The camera wasn't set up

The love Men they ran with the box set
of boxers and ruff with
mans best friend their boxer bark
Their home is their bark

Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

*****


Apr 7, 2012, 6:08:21 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




"Name: Amelia Weissmuler. Date of birth: June 6th, 1920. Test subject number 314-X. Specimen: Tiger." Amy heard all of this through a haze of sedatives that had begun to lose their already poor effect. She turned in the direction of the voice and saw a fearsome **** SS General standing behind a white clad scientist with a heavy accent. The general said nothing but listened and watched as Amy was strapped down to a cold metal table, completely **** with various wires, tubes and needles protruding from her flesh. She groaned painfully, the needles were extensive, and the **** scientists had no care of decency or respect. she was hit with another sedative and before she lost consciousness she heard the scientist, who she guessed was Dr. Heismeiller, say, "Name, Mordecai Dansker, former Major of the Third *****. Date of birth: September 19th, 1919. Test subject 14-W. Specimen: Wolf. As you
can see, Heir General, these are both healthy specimens, as are the test subjects." Amy heard a
rattling of cages. Her vison slowly went dark but not before seeing the doctor's face, uncovered and psychotic.
* *
When Amy woke up again, she was being suspended from the floor, the tubes and wires accompanied by menacing electrodes. there was an unnatural blue and white crackling of electricity around her, illuminating the other suspended tables nearby, the bodies in various grotesque positions and levels of decay. she tried to scream but found a machine unceremoniously shoved in her mouth, stretching deep inside her. she looked and saw nothing but obscene machines and various glass tubes of colored bubbling liquids. she tried sluggishly to break free but to no avail. what little strength she had was useless against the torturous devices emplanted in and around her. "Doctor, begin the experiment."
"Yaboe!" She heard a solid click resound through the room and heard a male scream in another room. the screams echoed for a long while, then nothing. she heard a gasp of releif from
the doctor and, "General! Subject 14-W... he has... Survived!"
"Good. now start on the frauline." there was a large thud from outside the room. "Quickly! this facility is under seige!"
"Yes sir, heir general. Test subject 314-X prepped and ready. Begin phase 1." she cried out silently as the needles burned hot inside her and the tubes boiled her insides. the electrodes soon incapacitated her and she fell unconscious.
*
*
"Phase 1 complete, heir general, subject is ready, proceeding to Phase 2."
Amy felt an intense burning around the needles, and an electric fire through her veins. the machine had been taken from her mouth, but she doubted she could scream any more, as her throat was raw from the silent screams of Phase 1. She felt her body shake uncontrollably as more electric shocks were administered. she was left panting and slumped over. "Sequence complete, the bonding process was a success." there was another thud and sediment from the roof fell to the floor. "Get her down now! They will be through soon!" She was lowered to the ground and unstrapped from the table, picked up, and placed on a stretcher. she raised her hands on front her face and nearly fainted, her hands, or paws, resembled that of a tiger, and as she looked, her whole body was covered in a slick orange, black and white fur. She was put into the backseat of an armored car with a simple blanket draped around
her. Amy felt nauseated
as the car sped off. It hit a bump in the road and she moaned painfully, clutching her furry belly and retching. the **** next to her turned away in disgust. the car ride was long and sickening, and she lost consciousness twice, and finally she tried to lay down in the cramped space. when the armored car finally stopped, she was pulled from the back seat and carried over a soldier's shoulder and into a small bunker. Once inside, amy heard a metal door open and was laid down onto a stiff bed with a single pillow and a single cover. There was a small window in the cell, a drab, grey stream of light shining in her eyes. She propped herself up on her elbow and shielded her eyes from the blinding contrast. Once her eyes adjusted, amy noticed that things had a particular sharpness to them and she had an acute awareness of things based on scent. she stood shakily, and noticed she was almost
six inches taller now, and her new tail swished back and forth along the concrete floor. she stepped
forward and grasped the iron bars and peeked out, seeing a black leather messenger bag and a black uniform lined with white. she couldn't quite reach the uniform, but was able to get a claw around the strap of the messenger bag. she pulled it closer to her and saw that her initials were monogrammed into the leather. she pulled it through the bars and opened the bag, pulling out a small, blank, leather bound journal and a pen. still ****, she sat on the bed and practiced writing, tearing out two pages of scratch paper. She began her journal with, "I am no longer the person i once was. i am something new, something... different."
• * *
The **** captain stepped into the bunker and saw amy, half lying, half dangling on the bed, the leather journal clutched close to her chest. he stormed into the cell and backhanded her awake, snatching up the journal as she cowered in the corner, her tail wrapped around her. the captain flipped through the pages of the journal and then closed iit with a snap. he glanced at it and dropped it on the bed. "it is yours now, Frauline. you are very special to the third *****. the fuhrer himself has asked for you to be placed in the Waffen SS and trained." amy glanced at the uniform on the table outside the cell and he nodded, "specially tailored for you, frauline. he stepped outside the cell and grabbed the uniform, setting it down on the bed. "you may Change into your new uniform and join the rest of us outside." he stepped outside and she was alone. she donned the simple uNdergarments then
slipped into the soft black trousers, after which she put on her military boots. next she put on the black and white jacket signature of the SS. the jacket was sleek and menacing, though it did little to flatten her chest, but that, she supposed, was one of her feminine charms. last was her hat and armband, both adorned with the *******. she gathered the leather messenger bag and stepped outside the cell, where a mirror stood, giving her a chance to see what had been done, the black uniform was a dramatic contrast to her brightly colored fur, and her new black stripes added a fierce look to her. she grinned and flashed menacing white teeth. she turned her body, looking at herself from different points of view. she slipped the **** armband onto her right arm and turned to leave. she stopped when she encountered a high pitch noise right next to the door. for the moment she just walked past, opening the door and adjusting her vision to the outside light. the layout was grey and barren,
as it always was in wartime. the captain was waiting for her along with a small squad of SS troops. a
Few laughed and remarked at her appearance, making cat noises and wolf whistling at her. she glared at them with a bright white snarl carved into her soft face. *they will fear me...
she saluted the captain and said, "heil ******." he returned the gesture, "heil. you are now part of the Waffen SS, frauline Amelia."
"please sir, its amy."
he noted her directness and ferocity, "very well, amy. before we assign you a task, though, you must prove yourself." he addressed the squad, "they are all corporal's and sergeants. you are merely a private. you will gain a rank for each one that you ****. however, they have been told that if they do not force you to submit, they will be killed or sent to the russian front. so you best fight your hardest, private amy."
as he finished, the squad set down their Mauser 98K's and MP-40's and stepped closer to her. her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in ferocious determination. there were twelve of them.
"Fight!"
• *
Amy took a fighting stance and faced her attackers. she attempted a punch at the nearest one but was kneed in the gut, she was thrown back a few feet. she fell to her knees and clutched her stomach with one hand, holding herself upright with the other. tears sprung to life in her eyes and threatened to roll down her cheeks. she fought the tears back and stood, feeling her claws extend. she swiped at a soldier's throat, catching him right in the throat. blood splattered the ground as he choked on his own fluids. the remaining eleven were taken aback slightly, allowing her to pounce another soldier, punching and tearing at his gut with lethal force. her fur was bloodstained and she waited a moment too late, watching the cavity she created fill with blood. she was barreled over, the wind knocked out of her by a sergeant. she lay on her back, gasping for air as the soldiers closed in,
landing a few punches and sending her reeling back. she staggered back, struggling for breath. she
Bumped up against something and realized it was a bunker wall, she was trapped. she thought quickly and decided for a new course of action, she waited for one of them to gather his bravado and throw a solid punch at her, which was useless, she grabbed his wrist and smashed his head against the wall, filling his helmet with blood and brains. in the same move, she had grabbed his Luger and had downed three more of the remaining ten. in their moment of confusion she kicked the closest one in the fork of his legs and followed up with a pistolwhip. the man went down quickly and died by the heel of her merciless boot. the remaining six charged at her, one falling by her last bullet and another caught a swift kick in the ribcage, shattering the bones to peices. the rest of the men were sergeants, and they began to retreat, running into the open field. she was about to chase after them when she
heard another Luger fire. she turned to see the captain shooting the deserters. each fell, one by
One by the captain's gun to her surprise he let a single man go. "you have done very well, frauline amy. you have killed eight out of twelve men, not bad at all."
she was panting, her uniform dirtied, "why.. did you let.. him go?"
the captain smiled, "someone has to spread you're reputation, heir captain."
she gaped at him. "i am... captain?"
"yaboe, heir frauline. you have proved yourself worthy to serve under the fuhrer."
she saluted him, "thank you, heir captain."
*
amy wrote in her journal as they were driven to one of the Stalags: "my promotion to captain has earned me my choice of weapons, ive chosen a few, two long barrel Luger's, a cavalry saber, and a sixteen foot bullwhip. i also carry an automatic Mauser in my messenger bag. other than a few knives carefully hidden on my body, that should be it. ive become the fuhrer's favorite enforcer, though i feel as if i'm forgetting something..."
amy closed the journal and placed it in her bag with a soft snap.
Amy waited for a **** private to open the car door and let her out, tapping her foot impatiently. when he finally came, she had a luger pointed at his chest. "you're late. she got out of the car and shot him, holstering the pistol as he crumpled to the ground. the colonel in charge rushed towards her, "what is the meaning of this?!"
"your man on watch was late, and now he'll never be late again. and also, colonel, as i am a captain in the SS, i am your superior officer and you WILL adjust yourself accordingly or i will replace you with someone who will."
his expression was that of shock, "y-yes, heir captain, please follow me." he escorted her quickly to the main building. amy glanced around at the peering POWs, glaring at them with distaste as they whistled at her. "who's the kitty?" "what the hell is that?"
her hands fell to her lugers and she was ready to fire when she was beckoned inside by the colonel and she followed behind him reluctantly. "you should control your prisoners.
i find an overall lack of order in this camp. you're lucky i'm in a good mood, or i'd have you strung up for incompetence. lets hope my further evaluation of this... facility... does not make me any more inclined to do so."
the colonel stuttered again and dipped his head, "y-yes heir captain."
she stepped outside unopposed by any. she snapped her fingers and a sergeant rushed to her side and saluted. she handed him a journal logbook and he opened it to the page marked with the Stalag number. she entered the closed off areas of the stalag to inspect the barracks.
*
amy's fists were clenched with rag, a prisoner mocked her from within his confines. his fellow prisoners pleaded with him to stop. "she's lethal!" "she killed eight SS sergeants and corporals singelhandedly her first day!"
the prisoner ignored them and began gesturing at her. she snapped her head up and their eyes met for an instant, she growled through a gritted snarl and was over the fence in mere moments. once over,
the prisoner that mocked her was now on the ground, his throat between her fangs. he cried out once and then gurgled blood as she tore out his throat. she spat the flesh onto the dirt and stood, brushing the dusty particles from her uniform. the men around her backed away when she approached them, and watched her cautiously as she stepped back out of the fenceline. amy picked up her cap from the ground and brushed it off. one of the prisoners called for a doctor, and when one of the guards began to look for one, she merely said, "no, he wont survive. leave him be."
the soldier saluted and went back to his post. she walked up to the colonel and said, "your prisoner annoyed me, as do you, colonel. you have three days to turn this place around or you'll end up worse off then your prisoner over there."
the colonel had turned a pale white and whispered, "understood, captain."
she returned to her quarters and listened for a moment as the colonel shouted orders. "that was fun." she remarked.

Amy was asleep in one of the larger rooms in the main  building, her uniform folded neatly on the table near the bed. she kep one luger on her bedside table and the mauser under her pilllow. her other luger, her sword and her whip were next to her clothes. she was clad only in her fur, as she'd found that the most comfortable way to sleep.
she was woken up by a knock at the door. she blinked her eyes a few times. clutching the mauser handle with one hand and holding the blanket to her chest with the other, she said, "what is it?"
"the colonel wishes to speak to you, heir frauline."
she growled, "grrr... fine. tell him to make it quick." she clutched the blanket closer as he opened the door. she held the mauser aimed at him and said, "turn." he did so without hesitation. she slipped cautiously out of the bed and began to dress. "what is it you wished to speak with me about, colonel?" amy put on her undergarments and then pulled her trousers up to her waist, fastening the belt comfortably.
"there is an important telegram for you, heir captain." she pulled on the jacket over her simple shirt, tugging out any wrinkles. "oh? from who?" next came the holster belts, each hanging slightly lower than her first belt. her sword was another belt, and there was a custom clip there for her whip as well.
"Himler, he has special orders for you." her messenger bag was next to last, slung over her shoulder before she slipped into her boots. ""You can turn now. hand them here." she stepped closer to him and took the envelope with her name scrawled on the front. the colonel excused himself so she could read the orders, "captain amelia weissmuler, once you have completed your assignment at Stalag 14, please make haste to stalingrad as there has been a number of our own turning against the *****. see to it that they cause no more problems. -heinrich himler"
she read it through three more times before folding it and placing it in her bag. she hurried outside, grabbing her hat
From the dresser.
* *
amy went about her inspection, seeing nothing wrong today. "the condition of stalag 16 has improved, heir colonel. well done. now send my car around." the colonel grinned and motioned for the car.
the black car adorned with swastikas roared to life, coming up beside her. the d

And now my coffees cold
Your backhanded compliments are getting old
We got in a fight tonight
you stormed out
you kicked over my bike

Excuses, excuses - they'll come in a flood,
When you realize your actions have pushed me away.
Imagine! That I once considered you blood!
But I've had quite enough of the games that you play.

The switch came in stages, a gradual thing,
I first didn't notice; it wasn't too clear.
My perspective grew sharper with distance between,
Felt your backhanded words as they pin-pricked my ears.

You thought I wouldn't notice, would let it slip by,
Never gave me much credit, and that was your fault.
Wrapped your insults in jokes, like arsenic on rye,
And you thought all this time that you wouldn't be caught.

I don't know where you get it - this self-righteous act,
It's not as endearing as you think it to be.
You might take what you want, and then leave it at that,
But I'm telling you now: you'll get no more from me.

I don't know what has prompted you picking this fight.
They're pathetic, yet hurtful, these things that you say.
And I don't know where you think you've gotten the right
To take it out on me when you don't get your way.

For years, it's been happening - don't know how I missed
All the ways you controlled me; I answered to you.
Always did what you wanted, I'm realizing this;
The extent of the selfishness you put me through.

But it changed not too long ago, didn't it, dear?
Oh yes, I grew a spine, and things started to change.
And, oh, you didn't like what you started to hear.
My defying your wants nearly made you deranged.

People grow and they change; it's especially true
For me ever since I was finally free.
So how sad to discover it's not true for you,
You're the same as you were, and as you'll always be.

That's the person you are, who you've been since we met
And it never caused issues until days of late.
The things that you've said are things you will regret,
Because I have no room for your envy-fueled hate.

You've become quite the mean one - I'm sorry, it's true.
You're no longer the person to whom I could turn.
It's a shame (it's a **** shame), but yes, we are through.
And it will not be me who is nursing the burn.

Maybe one day you'll change, and we might reunite.
I'm not getting my hopes up - there's danger in that.
Until then, I hope you learn to treat people right,
Because no one desires to stand by a brat.

Maybe I am the first to address how you are,
But I won't be the last, and this, I can assure.
Your poignant self-righteousness won't get you far,
And I'm sorry - for your case, there isn't a cure.

So remember me now; you'll remember me then,
When you lose all those who used to stand at your side.
You'll remember the disrespect you showed your friend,
For alas, she won't be there, holding you as you cry.

this is some ******* baby
u know i got the time
come unwind ur coils around
my soft body, make me
shiver, mr. knows me like
the back of his hand;
backhanded compliments
from tu pinche mamá
she thinks i'm perilous
never doubted u, but
she never believed in u either
& it's high time u and i
got high by the edge of the sea
in this world it's yeet
or be yote (u know i'm the goat)
baby it's just a joke, relax
the breeze is still blowin'
your hair into my face
& i can smell the fear in
waves crashing into the cliff
it's gonna be ok, corazón
sometimes u just gotta
yeet or be yeeted into
life, unhindered by her
& remember my heart is open
my body may be soft but
them waves ain't gonna break
against my soul tonight

Dear Mother and Father,*

        I spoke with Ali today. Maybe it was the first time in years. Maybe it was the first time that we’d ever actually spoken at all. Either way. She told me some things that I thought you should know.

Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

         Focus on this. Your white picket fence. Your barbecue, your big family dog. Your pristine, rich neighborhood. Your uppity gossip. Your rules, judgements, “charity.”

         Behind your closed doors, however, dwells something else.

         Something like hypocrisy. Something like abuse.

Now focus on this.

         Ali: dark and brooding, even as a small child. Questioning all of your family values, the ones that I had merely accepted.

         My little sister, the ultimate judge, the supreme *****.

         Forbidden black fingernails, black hair; fingernails, which you forced pink, hair that you insisted blond. Friends that you deemed “greasy” and “unsavory”.

         Hateful, teenage Ali. Ditching classes to go off with boys. Returning home with track marks and glossy eyes. Sneaking out with no destination, if only to not be at the one place she couldn’t be herself.

         Home.

Now, this. That awful “it’s not to late to save your soul” camp. A reform jail. Holier than thou epithets. Squeaky clean repentance. A stockade full of higher authority telling her, “you’re wrong,” telling her, “we are going to fix you.”

         Brain washing robots with backhanded facades.

         Sad, scared Ali. It’s no wonder she chose to rebel, for all she knew of authority was hypocrisy.

         Not just you.

         Instead, a withered, sick janitor.

         The old man who brought her the food that they didn’t serve in the dinning quarters. Fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Food to outweigh the everyday gruel.


         This lonely, forlorn man expecting compensation in return. ****** compensation; unimaginable and certainly ungodly acts.

         This Janitor, he would wander into Ali's room in the early hours of the morning. . . And vanish, several hours later.

        His pockets, empty. His heart, full.

         In this sick and twisted world, the janitor believed that love could exist anywhere. He believed that romantic relationships should not be constricted by something as trivial as age.

         And Ali, she had alternative motives, and compensated her innocence to reach them.

         This was, perhaps, the beginning of Ali's stark career.

         The *compensation of her soul.

         Or, perhaps, it was the man that picked her up next, as a desperate hitchhiker.

         Ali, who finagled the nun’s keys and escaped that ungodly place forever.

         Ali, who climbed into a sinister car with a pretentious man who warped her in more ways than one would even imagine.

         Penniless, solitary, and willing.

         But, think. What would you do with yourself if you had absolutely nothing and no one to lose?

         **Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.

My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.

Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.

Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.

Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.

Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind

Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.

How do you feel about this and that?

A cockroach stealing your children's dreams of a bright and peaceful future?

Watching a mongoloid getting backhanded by a ******* with a heart of gold?

The unknowable can't be evacuated by an atomic bomb.

Knowledge cannot be enthralled by microbiology.

Peace CAN & WILL shatter into fragments by the use of clinical drugs.

Fun finds the cure for cancer in a twisted upbringing that you and your siblings will never be blessed to experience.

Trust can trigger an avalanche of facts, AND satanism should generally avoid including sexuality.

Mary Magdalene turns boring things into ****** tension like peace inspires fundamentally skewered acts of protests.

Our world leaders briefly researching painful mutilations in an ancient garden in Greece, while suggestively grabbing handfuls of lost gifts in a church made from human bones.

How are you feeling about this mess of words I've sewn together?  

Televised revolutions are deeply advertising etched foreskins of death like Disney World sells us dates with Mickey Mouse and his muse Minnie as Donald poses as Adolf ******.   

Watch your friends fade and die as they disobediently blow away blue swamps at your feet, never even bothering you with a decent goodbye.  

There's a supply and demand on our radios briefly warning us of fearful flesh in the background of a dark ash filled sky, gently driving away from mysteries spied through a peephole.

I would have cried briefly, if worshiping premonitions in the shadows was good human behavior...But it's not..

Your sisters are daintily self-destructing emergency shelters dancing w/ both hands in your pockets while vomiting their lunches into fine porcelain. Aren't we lucky?

I am happily reusing substances
and creating electrifying populations with clay and words. A seamstress of sorts I suppose.  But I'm no artist.

Pentecostalism might be able to rid the world of a nightmare and your wildest dream might have been known to lead to a disorder that hasn't yet been but already has five matter of fact cures.

The Bible courses through the veins of vengeance like physics can be used to detect our long-term relationship with Santa Christ. Satan and I think this is exciting!

Complex religious designs can be combined with gracelessness in the name of American eye-candy.  We can be uncomfortable if it's entangled with destiny. Of this I am certain.

My skin color
Doesn't make me free
You can't assume because
Someone looks white
They are treated equally

Being white doesn't
Make me privileged
I worked hard to get
To where I am

I am not as "white" as I look
I am Hispanic
Which means that
Behind the scenes my
Family is not as
Well put together
As we may look

My parents are divorced
We're not poor but
They're struggling to
Get their kids a college education

I am a female
I didn't always have the
Rights I do now
For many years
My kind couldn't vote

For many years
Women were forced
Into a gender role
Being a female
Doesn't mean I'm weak

I am not straight
But also not a lesbian
Until this year
I didn't have the luxury of
Getting married to
Who I wanted where I wanted

People still don't understand
They think I'm confused
I can pray it away
You know what
Not even your
Backhanded religion
Can save me

I am not even
Safe in my own mind
There is a
Constant war
My depression and anxiety
Is eating away at me

You look at me
You see white
My people
We have
Always had to fight

I am talking to you,
snake.
remember how
you hid your fangs
at first?
but it was not long
until
you sunk into
my flesh
trying to
****
away my positivity
away my compassion
away my warmth
use it for your
sustenance

you leech,
parasite,
passing as something human

not
any
more

when I think back on recent years
I am almost
thankful
to have met you.
don't for a second
think it's because I loved you
or we had good times
never
in a million years.
I am thankful
to have experienced
an abusive relationship
manipulation
codependency
the second I became
an adult.

I was not
an adult.
unaware
people like you existed
I did not stop being a child
until
the first night
you backhanded me
across the face
and with
the first slap
you smacked
my innocence
out of the window
never to be found
again.

you never let me
leave your sight
but,
after I lay
in a panic attack
traumatized
scared
of humanity
you told me to stay at "my" friends.
she was your
friend
not mine.

never trust
a friend
of the snake.

I came home early
you were in bed
with another woman
somehow
whenever I brought this up
it was never addressed,
never discussed,
instead
changed
and twisted
into something
that was
my
fault.

that didn't stop you
from accusing me
of infidelity
harassing me
about being a ****
when I was never
even
allowed to leave
the house
my hell.

I never for one second
loved you
nor was I ever
attracted to you
you
smelled my vulnerability
and went in
for the ****.

it took me months
but I left you.
you bawled
and shook
as you told me
you can't live without me.
******* die, then.
I had (have)
no sympathy
my eyes
were dead
cold
as I looked at you
weeping
like the pathetic
weak
waste of life
that you are.

I am thankful
because I taught myself
to be independent
to get a job
since then I have been
I will never
rely
on another
for my basic
necessities.
never
rely on a man
to give me
a place to rest
food
a shower
now,
I know where to look
in others
for the fangs
that you hid
from me,
from every woman
that has had
the displeasure
of meeting you.

I dont know why
I bothered opening
the first letter
you sent me
from jail.
told me
you know you shouldn't
have solicited
a fifteen year old girl
but you missed me.
she
reminded you of me.
now
I throw them out
without opening them.
that fifteen year old girl
is stronger
than you will ever be
for speaking up
and getting you
incarcinated.
she is
the reason
I support all other women -
specifically
younger girls.
I do not know her name
but
I know she will
be happier
than your miserable self
could ever
be.
ever.

I dont hate you.
I pity you
and your worthless
serpentine
body
slithering
covered in dirt
looking
for your next
vulnerable victim
to strike at.
when my dad found a snake
while mowing the lawn
he would chop off
it's head
with our largest knife
those animals
didn't deserve it.
but you do.
****.

Foster, what family? Lower class, dream of  vacation
******* what trickles down, affecting a life situation
White to Blue Collar; a rebuild or invasion?

Millions inside the boxes of convention
Justified superficial, backhanded salutations
Refute Love, proposed as mankind’s invention
Pulled by a string of instant gratification
Finding freedom’s temporary
If ever, long term locations
Constricted, system of classifications
The socially admissible connections,
Not to mention gangs of corrections
Flowing through the previous, my own generation

For the infinite hours
One after the other
Trade integrity for the illusion of power
Not all those with a gun should be considered a coward
Face the souls sold on Wall Street,
Remember those from Twin Towers

Ground zero, abandoned. Now bare, desolate
The idea of terrorism denied, while some wrestle it
Rationales dislocate, post hairline fracture
Frontal lobe imposter, posing in rapture
As if talent, love, or hate could ever be captured
Held at gun point, then forgotten years after
My children will one day look to me for the answer

What’s society, this twisted maze we live in?
I will gaze in their eyes with the same exact question
And don’t ever allow me again not to mention
Real criminals can’t learn from minute or life-long detentions
Some incapable of that level of retention
As our battered soldiers forever sleep at attention

Politically correct, tongues in consistent hesitation
Kiss police ***, only to go to the station
Before the thought of who signed the citation
Treated as if it were a felony violation
Our basic rights according to our nation
Arizona & Co for minority elimination

Die fighting the statute of poverty’s limitations

vi.i.xi

First off, a very backhanded congratulations to you, madam
Next, how dare you speak of that which you say you have never known?
You knew it with me and I knew you did but **** me
It never occurred to me that you thought it was as common as you make it.

Love?
Lies.
Love lies.
Love lies dead in the pool of blood next to the gun you used to **** it.
The blood is mine and I hope that you drink it all
Why wouldn't you? You already took everything else of mine with you.

So cliché, isn't it?
The way I'm acting must come off as melodramatic...
But the most cliché thing of all nowadays is
Saying, "I love you"...
... because you, like many other people, don't mean it.
The only love I've ever seen you give was to yourself.
It's called vanity, honey.

Now, cheer up. He's calling you joyfully
"Knowing" that you are "his"
Smile so that he hears it,
But don't clean up:  he can't see your make up running.

For as long as I can remember, I've heard the whispers. The silent 'but's, the sidelong sighs, and the backhanded compliments that go in smooth and rip out ragged.
         I believe everyone has undeniable self-truths. One of my truths is that I am fat. It took me twenty years to come to the conclusion that this truth was not something to be ashamed or afraid of. Unfortunately, my mother doesn't agree.
         It's not wholly her fault; she was raised to be ashamed of her body and the bodies of women in general. We were taught that tolerance equals love but not necessarily acceptance. My body was something to tolerate. I loved my body in the way I loved my pesky little brother, mostly because I was told I must.
         My mother's body language whispered to my pre-teen insecurities, "You're beautiful...but", or "I'm not saying you have to lose weight...but", or "You're perfect the way God made you, I just wish that...". She taught me to be ashamed and afraid of the way my body was developing, "I wish you hadn't filled out so fast, that you wouldn't wear that shirt because it brings attention to the fact that you have the chest of a twenty something at thirteen." "That skirt shows too much skin and that shirt was cut too low, don't wear a tank top because the boys will think of you as **** first and intelligent second."
         There's nothing wrong with being the fat smart girl, although I have noticed that it's never 'smart fat girl' because being fat is evidently more important than intelligence. Being fat isn't bad. Being smart is a super good thing. The problem arises when the fat smart girl is taught that she must whisper. When you don't tell that girl that being beautiful has nothing to do with what others think of you and that she is absolutely allowed to have an opinion of her own, she won't find her voice until she can't hear yours anymore.
         I have whispered all my life. I don't wear brightly colored nail polish so that you won't notice that my hands stutter. I whisper with my body language. I whispered "no" when he went too far. I whispered when I wanted to scream.
         And I wondered why no one ever heard me.

She tells warm lies through lips cool as frost,
while her eyes cast frigid glares.
Her backhanded barbs, sharp as steel,
strike like ice crystals in your heart.
Infidelity coats upon her like a sheen of ice.
Beauty and slippery deceit, rolled into one.
And yet, you stand, as a man made of snow,
not truly seeing, not speaking out.
You slowly die, waiting for her to thaw.
A snowball in Hades stands a better chance,
than you, to win her heart.
For within her veins runs soiled slush
and her soul is an Arctic wind.

yes,
i look like my mother.
but i feel the need to remind you
with a swift chair to the face
(i think that'll get the point across, don't you?)
that i look very much like my father.
i don't give a single ****
what your last name is
that you're my mom's
cousin
you can shove that snotty
backhanded
comment
up your ***,
mitchell.
i have no relation
to that name
despite my blood
despite my nose
that looks so much like your side
you are not one side of a family
you are one side of a war

About 4 years into the friendship, or whatever it had by that stage become, during a chat on our Internet **** preferences
over badly-filtered Americanos
in the UCD student cafe, I said to her
" I think I enjoyed our friendship more when we used to get coffee and just laugh for twenty minutes. "
And after a half second of unusual silence from her, those pools
of ever-renewing blue eyes of hers almost incisions
into my consciousness, I added" That was pretty unique."
And then I laughed unbound, and she almost shrugged
and definitely smirked as if to say "this is where I am now, it took some time for me to realise but it's where I've always been."
Unapologetic, as only she could seem to be.

And it was, like any tryst, fling or abandoned half-romance is, utterly unique. Half on the way
to becoming something we were going to hang on to and definitely regret
and half-stopped, sulking out of a puddle,
dead damp weight created by the differences we made ourselves
for the other to behold and dismantle.
The immediate was meant for us, first the attraction, then the disgust, then the despair, then the cursing off, then round to the intrigue all over again.
She remained the great question mark of my undergraduate years. Heartaches after her were equally demeaning, but far more easily explained.

You know you've found someone irreplaceable when they tell things you really shouldn't know,
things shoved up in boxes for years, things too unformed to be really caught sounding out, in the moments after your first kiss.
And every clever undergraduate will tell you how negative all connotations of "irreplaceable" are.

And yet these are the backhanded good graces,
the immeasurable gifts that memory serves
I wear this like a wound I can find wry mirth at the very sight of,
I have learned all this from her without her ever intending
These memories are indented in a music box with an imitation sacred heart all mine
distempered by the candid lines of a girl who never wanted religion, divulged somewhere in our seat of learning.

personal growth comes
attached
as web-like spider strings
pull and push
we are fates ***** mannequins

And be that as may
as much as i need
differences
stand in the way

fate is a heavy handed ****
and whether
misscommunicated ******
hopes
or backhanded alleyway
compliments

there will always be a string
between us
even if its just pulling us apart

grown too big for my britches,
I run my fat, fat mouth until I
look like a fool--a happy one.

flirting up a storm with his friends,
antagonizing my brother, my friend,
until she yells, and he kicks my ***.

I went for a hug, and he kicked my *** (!) physically pinning me, I can't move
I rolled him over once, at least I got that, and he later apologized for be a ****.

I mean, he's got three inches
fifty pounds of muscle, and

actual fighting
training on me

How long could I really last?

I am a woman, I am weaker.

Kate told me that in Nepal, the men backhand the women and children, very easily, and she was backhanded for not remembering how to say her name in Nepallian. That must feel awful, to have a feeling of power handed over to big fists because of strength, not money.

I watch the trees, I break a beer bottle on accident
I flash the cars over the bridge, I wasn't even that
drunk, I am just sad--very tired of feeling nothing.
It's just sibling rivalry, and we'll both get over it.

my family makes a tall crowd;
my mother is 5'10", the shortest

we were raised to party, hard, and we entertain, flamboyantly
we were raised to clean it up, efficiently, to take responsibility

I might be a fool, but at least I'm going to be happy later.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly

He might be too jaded to be as successful as he could be.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly.

I once loved a girl from Japan
She told me the two words of her name mean
“Aimed for Balance”

She taught me how to write my name in Katakana letters.
She taught me how to read past sarcasm
And backhanded comments.
I taught her how to read American literature
And how to say “Roller Skates”.
She taught me how to learn with my emotions,
And I taught her how to learn with her body.


I would tell her, “I love you”.
She would laugh, and with those brown eyes of hers,
Look into my own and say , “Are you drunk?”

Her hands, pale and smooth like paper,
Would often find themselves entwined in my own, long and strong,
Like a summer’s warmth embracing a bright day.

She was my moon, and
She always called me her “Shining Sun”
But I had to let her go.

She cried tears that fell like snow,
But I could only feel a rising heat
Behind my cheeks.

I tried to tell her,
“You are too good of a lover
And I am too poor of a man
To give you my soul.”

She told me, with her wintery voice,
“I want to stay with you!
I need your voice, your hair,
Your hands, your eyes!”

She needed my summer
But I would be leaving for a faraway place.

I needed her winter,
But her cool smile has frozen into bitterness
And will grant me no respite.

Now, without her dark, soothing hair against my chest,
I find myself
Aimed for Balance.

Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.

Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.

Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.

And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.

Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.

Holidays spent on countless charades,
Predicting all of your plays
And gauging all of your games.
You're driving me insane!

I'd much rather fry cheese on the moon-
Than see your face...
Anytime soon.
Oh how pointless life can be
When every reverie
Is infected by your dull surprise.

Condescensing looks descend
Into words written in books,
Like backhanded comments
Striking my face blue.
With you I'll never find paradise.

Now it's time to turn you off,
Beckon you with a drunken scoff
And eject you from my life.

Happiness is but a loved child
Lurking within the minds
Of the abused set free
To let their hearts run wild.

A riveting notion it is –
to say "what if"
to disappear after damages
what if the world stopped what it
was doing and commemorated
                    us
what if it didn't?
clumsiness hovers tall
over the backhanded intentions
via smile, kindness.

I'm not sure
if push or pull would apply to
this.
To becoming
a bit less empty
dodging every unsolved
pattern of emotion
that there is.
Blatantly refusing to believe
that somebody else
is two steps ahead

just because sly intuition
hadn't led them astray

Your nose scrunches up in normal conversation. It makes you look a little bit like a piglet.
Trust me, that may sound like a backhanded compliment, but it's adorable.

When you yawn, you sound like you want to cry.
Nothing freer than you transposing your tears for the sake of singing sad songs,
To Children you've never met, as if you've never slept.
We're both a little too sure about what we eat, and
The times you sit on your hands are the days when your guts moan...

[Others would call these imperfections, but the little things are always the best parts...
Birds flapping their wings (hollow arm-bones)
Tree-roots burrow and anchor (lungs)
Grass pets your eyes]

Always busy, the words form on the tip of our toes, everything I say
Is written with our silhouettes.
Outlines pigment the natural world...
Like a horror-show,
Hallways stretch for hours
(I can not currently see out this window).

Your open sockets spill waterfalls of true understanding from a crimson sunset of genius scars,
Like open wounds of the best silence, only the sound of teeth clashing
Between stretching lips
You hook your palms into my cheeks, bones creak
Gazes reflecting thoughts, unity in unmerited shame,
Our legs conversing softly, hair intertwined (snakes on our necks), and all night...
I keep playing a triplet between your ribs
A simple arpeggio archway under moans from dead skin in light,
I hold you by the red skin, carve you, for just one moment
Until we're living art. Skin static, roots spreading wings.

No expiration date for us, just a point when our bodies no longer parallel
But after that, we speak in clouds
We paint murals for each other in abandoned city parking lots
Or empty train halls.
The moon is our vanishing point,
All eyes on craters.

My language is something undiscovered to me,
I don't know if I want to let all these words go.
You mean Reincarnation to me,
Some jaw of life, some whale's mouth.
I am snow.

Everything loses focus but the stars...

Like teenagers.

A new force begins in this century

With ancient notions of greed and scarcity

It pushes us hard

It hits our home

But last time i checked

We aren't alone

In fact we are more than enough

Community is key when the times are tough

And in numbers we hold still

We hold steady

We hold true

We are ready

And as we stand, shaken, surrounded, subdued and silent

Still we stand strong, together and without violence

And it all starts there

It all starts when we start to care

By separating past and present

By stimulating body and mind

By speaking out when something's left unspoken

We can find solace in these soul-less times

Within moments we are undefeated

In these moments we are truly divine


So exhaust yourself

Brake yourself

Challenge yourself

Remake yourself

And if you still don't understand the truth to the questions

And you still have to ask a selfish and backhanded 'WHY?'

Then fine

Lets find

Lets define some final answers to the demons in your mind


Have you considered that perhaps together if we share them

Lay it all out and bare them

That half the fear of it all

Might just simply unwind?

No way you say?

Well what if i told you

That the vessel that holds 'it' all in

Your pain

Your struggle

Your self proclaimed entitlement to 'sin'

Those things that you thought was just yours to fight alone at home without having ever known you aren't the only one that fights it on your own....

Your disdain for the insane frame that entraps your brain that leaves us crippled and maimed through what feels like the end of days.....

What if i told you

That your own shell is the only thing

That's truly stopping real change from happening?

That the struggle from within each of our minds defines the rest of time well at least the rest for all of mankind?

You.

Me.

We.

Everybody.

We must reach through it.

Cause if we don't, who in hells name is going to pursue it?

My ego is intact, I stole **** from work and my mom isn’t disappointed in me.

I got papers, I got coffee, I got a lot of sleep, I read about that boxer got shot in the head [incidentally] and they said;

“You can’t keep a good man down for long.”

So I’m trying to find out what is “a good man”? Was it the hit and run I saw, or the fathers pushing their kids as products for their success? My high school class, or pretentious friends, or my managers cozy in jobs supported by nepotism calling me lazy, maybe my half dead beat father who kicked me out when I was 18 and convinced me I’d be an alcoholic if I ever drank.

Now your cleaning my ***** out of your sink and holding me and telling me I’m so good.

Maybe it’s my landlords who I never see, trying to evict me, or all the police officers who put like a hundred bullets in those folks car, or every guy who dished out a backhanded compliment to a girl who already cuts, or maybe, I know, it’s the president of the United States.

I paint my face red with lipstick and wait for the chatter of a crowd to turn into a riot of bodies. I sparkle in the light. I scream.

You got out of work at eleven and I was there waiting for you.
Leaning against your car with my arms crossed,
hiding in the shadow of the security camera because no one
should have to see us like this before I made my peace or before
you tried to stop me.
You sauntered over with your hair fixed and your face black
from the powdered metal dust that stuck to your skin while you were doodling
on a notepad waiting for the tumbler to shut up and give you new parts
to start the process.

I've waited and waited for my parts to have back from you after you took them.
To start the process.
To be fine
once again.

With your hands in your pockets you angrily backhanded a reply to my fainted "hi"
above the noise of other workers clocking out their time cards,
punch in and punch out
"What are you doing here?"
I didn't think it needed an answer.
But since you questioned and since I've been silently mad for days and since
I'm almost to the breaking point I said something
that I can't remember in this late night, confused memory,
that went

Well since
you don't answer my calls and won't look at me and won't talk to me
just keep pushing past and past my presence in your life when you're looking
and in your mind when you're not,
I put myself here.
I put myself where you'd have to see me just so you could tell me
why it is you loved so deeply and left so quickly.

Then my eyes went hazy and my mouth fell sideways as you told me
something I expected to hear that still shocked my soul
because a large part of me that I don't like to admit
was still hoping for the answer I'd been praying for
or the realization of an epiphany you've had over loving me
as only a memory and wishing you could have it that real again.
But you clocked me-
punch in and punch out.
You used me to heal the bad stuff and then parted when you were done.
Parted and left me when you had what you needed
to get through another stubborn year of acting like you love me
but lying because you never really did.

I got in my car and waited at the factory red light
until it turned green and drove the opposite way you were leaving.
I watched the two headlights as they blurred themselves into direction.
I watched you and I knew that I had nothing to come back to.
Just empty words to be said and a desperate attempt
to get back what I thought I had again.

We love urban, ice wrapper choc full, dense with matter, cream the power runs through, finding space, each cell. Unit, one by one, stacked upon deck, pile, floating concrete and multi access path. Crank each floor, glass patent steel, glint the Thames, Humber and Clyde, a boat in the reflection, slum cleared gentle penthouses on the other side. Dogged, ***** not allowed, Barking, Hackney, Toxteth, Little Ireland aka Cardiff gone. Dodo, hatchet, escalate poverty, high rise cool, the high rise flat.  Crowning glory, a sea of chiming memories, stirs the tenement cat. Swept beneath the paradigm, catapult off the parapet, somersault into a different time, moonlit skyscrapers, street sweepers become the concrete and the fifty foot glass dancers, cross between the cargo arches, gargoyles and shields bring them to the ground. The twisted metal of prams and brand new cars grind, traffic in drones, and the city drowns. Strip turn central, gorgeous girl, Hoxton lad, a touch too Dad, deposit on a Liverpool street pad, generation retro spinning fractal, money linear pavement uber yellow, scuttling insects and street martins, skylarks flying Saint Pauls cross and ball bearings, shopping centres unending. Biting into Cheapside, the hidden livers, gold delivers, pure to stay the shivers, the office block rises. Sharp bends, the bridge divides, shark rides the sky, dumps the bank and pierces its side, docks in every city worldwide, rivers pink with the ticklish blood of regicide. Pumpish, Victorian, sweet and blue, the older the City the quicker the glue. Mortar rectified a moment to ***** and overawe you. Shock, new wave architecture, backhanded awe. Brum pill wave beast eat your heart out, find another Chinese storm, currency blizzard, scales hardly balance, aha you had it, now you simply own. Own the moment, the pebbledash, corrugated roof, outside toilet and underground transit. We love urban, your moment we cherish and drain, there is nothing we can’t refuse to understand, too complex to refrain. Bounce as we ride the terrace and its suburban long train. Take your sweetheart on the nightbus, ****** him her, the hier of your plane, that’s where they will love you in the memories of the life near the top floor, and the final flight you were too drunk to gain. Seventy Two, you’re only thirty and you’re on forty one. You’ll fall back or you’ll begin ascendency. Shrink with wisdom, pick up the building, a tool, dreaming of scaling London, young a journeyman, jousters young son, learned, resisted the gun. I’ll fight with two hands, pile bricks or guide with a pen. Draw your city, write my memory, bind moment with every fragment, underpath, cycle through. Lights fading, jumping colours in the district where the girls who live the density beyond you and me, each element boiling their hearts and steaming potent New York’s paths. You had poetry in the apron of your mother’s lap, golden syrup and milky sap. You love urban, fifties bubble contrast in your seventies shunted through urban oasis and with that unknown factor, uber bijou, ‘Finding Nemo’ flat. We are urban, you are fashion, you are the generation that copied that, found the culture in the swinging city, post uni shack. Seven Eleven, Atlantic side heaven, promised more than double checking your watch before bedtime. Look at your daughter, she’s got ‘more than’ you hoped for, already in the palm of her sleeping hands, waking up to a metropolis only she will understand.

It got dark early that evening,
as it always does when winter is in full swing
and
the day's sun never quite
manages to ease the chill.  
Moods were equally brisk inside and stung about as sharply as the winds shrieking through the windows.  
My boyfriend
and
I
had been cooped up inside for the last few days.  
The walls
were
closing in,
suffocating us.
Tempers were flaring often that winter,
and
our nerves were especially raw that day.  
He had been in my face
barking orders from the moment he woke up.  
I tried to bite my tongue but my tongue would often betray me.

     "Hey, you gonna go get me some cigarettes?"  
I knew by the tone of his voice, it wasn't really a question.
     "No, I don't have time yet,"
I replied.
     He'd spent the whole day in the recliner wearing the same ***** t-shirt, boxer underwear
and
smelly socks as
he had on when it had started snowing days ago.  
He hadn't gone out job hunter for the last couple of weeks.
My      life      had      become      relegated      to      cleaning      up      after      him.  
It wouldn't have been so bad
if I hadn't moved so far out
into the country,

relying on a drunk

for my sole source of companionship.


He sat in his chair chain smoking cigarettes,
watching me as I folded the laundry,
gulping down one beer after
another,
loudly crushing each can that he emptied.  
     Bite my tongue, bite my tongue, I reminded myself.  
I continued folding jeans.  
It kept me from glaring at him,
seething with gritted teeth.  
I dont think I could have hated anyone more at that moment.
     "Come on, ******!"  
Go get me some cigarettes,
he bellowed.

     Something snapped.  
I threw the basket of jeans at him.  
They scattered across the room.  
I came toward
him.  
I balled up my hands.
     "What the hell is wrong with you?  Don't start with me!  I don't want to hear it,
he yelled.
     His words had no effect on me.
He cowered his head with his arms,
lowering them towards his lap.  
My fists
were clinched,
aiming anywhere on his body.  
Faster and faster.  
He made the mistake of looking up.  
I felt the
punch hit his right cheekbone.  
His backhanded slap landed on my right ear.  
After that, all sound was gone,
replaced with a ringing silence.  
I couldn't hear what was coming out of his moving lips,
nor out of my own.
     "I am sick of this!  I am sick of this!"
I roared.  
     "I can't live like this anymore.  
     I am sick of you mooching off of
     me!"
     In one swift motion,
he had managed to pull himself up
and
knock me down off of my feet.
     I don't know why I scrambled on hands
and
knees over to the car keys on the coffee table,
but instantly,
they
became priceless treasure.  

The all day beer binge caused him to swagger,
and he landed on top of me.  
He tried to pry the keys out of my grip,
knocking the coffee table over,     spilling cigarette butts
     and
     the pile of folded
             whites.

She grew up accepting the backhanded slap
of her mother’s words and the weight of her father’s silence.
When she turned 16 she got her first pair of red heels,
a gift from her parents to send her out into the world
they had envisioned for her.
She wore them to her prom, graduation,
and her first job interview at her father’s large corporation.
She even wore them to her almost wedding
before slipping through the back door.
Years later when she finally accepted
a date from the sweet boy who had lived
down the street her whole childhood life,
she wore her infamous red heels.
He smiled a bit when she entered his truck but didn’t say a word.
He drove her down to his favorite bayou.
She stared at him in awe but he didn’t say a
word as he stopped the truck and opened the
car door for her.
She hesitated before throwing the shoes and
running barefoot into her first taste of freedom.
The red heels turned black with mud as they
sank into the depths of the Earth.

You have to hold it up to the light
To see her darkened soul
She was born into the night
When the spirits were forced to let her go
Releasing her from the delusional 'utopia'
She had always known as home
Throwing her, stumbling into the blackness of the universe
Through the gauntlet of buffeting blades
Which tosses her back into her past
From which she has tried so hard to hide
If the truth were ever known
She'd hide it in the crevices of lies
Lies and half truths she has woven into
Thick veils and walls which block out the world
Like her hair does, hiding her eyes
Which brim over with tears daily Leaving pock marks in the path she's taken
Like a season of acid rain
Unforgiveness to her is another saying
She hears time and time again
Like a backhanded slap
Each time stings, but with repetition
She numbs to the pain
Cold as ice from her fingertips in
Creeping in towards her heart,
Surrounding it in a protective ice cage
Until some hopeful soul comes along,
Trying to warm her fingertips again

If luck knocks on your louvered door you will have a chance to fight your enemy. You will stand up like a crackerjack prize and pay no mind to the man that broke your backbone.

Into the windowless courtroom you will trek. People lined up on hand carved benches, staring with unaroused expressions, waiting warily for their names to be called.

You feel your breath halfheartedly fill your emaciated lungs with foul and cumbersome air as you survey the miserable scene and avoid locking eyes with the man that was disguised as your one true love.

You wear a band of rubber which you snap on your wrist at the first sign of weakness so you stay focused on the gavel’s exclamation.

He tells your long-lost spouse from another life with another wife that this is not Watergate and “I don’t recall” will not suffice in his civil courtroom.

His honor dishonors his woven white robe when he yells in your direction with agape red mouth and judgmental judicial tone. When the courage strikes your hand-stitched smile will widen with words and you will command an audience of perjurers who will point forceful fingers at their prior partners that used to be ******* lovers and now sit dead pan wantonly waiting to bleat themselves dry.

Slam the gavel while the corn cracks in the microwave bag until all the edges have been popped out and fairness has been forced through the funnel like liquid butter with a diet coke to wash it down.

You walk away, down the dark labyrinth of hallowed halls snapping your gum and tip-tapping your heels as you flee from the referee who does not understand your half eaten heart with the wiggly worm within its wind-up walls. He will pronounce your fate with a backhanded expletive and a muffled “adjourned.”