"bulged" poems
You call me
She, Her, Daughter, Girl
Shhhhh...
You speak with a blind mouth,
Look at me, see me
She isn't me,
Only a fantasy that you clutch till your knuckles grow pale.
I am not broken, I am free
But you hide behind a veil
Afraid to finally let go of...
Long hair, Lipstick, Lace dress
You question each time I show you my truth,
"Are you trying to hide your femininity?"
No, my femininity is simply not my definition.
Spend a day in my skin, in my cage,
And don't cry when the words start to pierce you like daggers,
Shhhh... Stay silent, don't worry, it's just a phase.
Now do you see that "She" just doesn't make sense?
You speak to me but your voice seems distant,
Bouncing off of me and echoing
Like I am the hollow statue of the girl you used to see.
"I am right in front of you, you know"
But my words are only heard when they come from her lips.
Do you see me now?
Mother, Children, Wife, Woman
A silent prayer each night for all the things I am not,
Stomach swollen, hair to my waist
The glow of an expecting mother on my face.
Curves, not edges,
Pink, not blue.
Delicate hands grasping the man who stands in my place.
Do you see me now?
Pants swollen, hair to my brow,
Along my jaw,
Down my legs,
Sprouting from my toes.
Do you see me now?
Bulged, Buzzed, Boy
Blood on my sheets, not between my legs
Stained by the girl who lies in her place
Fresh coat of gel and cologne,
Swirls of shaving cream.
Bare chest, Burning skin
Twitch of an Adam's apple when breath comes short,
Nervous fidgets with a tie,
tick tock,
"Pick me up at eight"
"Treat her right" "I will sir"
"Will you be my..."
"You're going to be a father!"
"You are the best daughter we could have asked for"
...."Son" I whispered.
But you didn't hear,
Please tell me
Do you see me now?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.
O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.
They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
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I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
There’s no other choice but to wear them,
The drawer offered nothing but these.
An odd pair of socks might be quirky,
Odd sizes don’t normally please.
The one at my ankle was spotted,
The other was striped to the knee
The latter two sizes the smaller,
The former quite large by degree.
This mismatch I thought to keep secret
And cover the dissonant pair.
I chose from the wardrobe some trousers
And shoes, with considerable care.
My ruse would conceal the divergence
From prescribed social standards of dress
And none would be any the wiser
My discomfort I’d have to suppress.
Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure
When physical pain has attacked.
The small sock had cramped my toes tightly
That blood didn’t flow, was a fact.
My colleagues regarded me strangely
For they could see nothing amiss
But I could feel cold perspiration,
Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss.
It was then that I felt a strange itching,
The striped sock began to descend
And round my right ankle it wrinkled
And bulged at the trouser leg end.
Dismayed at my great consternation
But clueless to what was awry
My friends made comforting gestures
Need of which I could only deny.
The moral of this story’s transparent
Socks are always best worn as a pair
Their nature is in the relationship
Which provides a well-balanced air.
And take the trouble to remember
Be congruent in all that you do
For disparity will often bring discord
And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
** ** Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.
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All summer I made friends
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door,
grinning through their many teeth,
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound
outside the door, the canvas
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes,
the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?
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Eat then to toss it up,
Appetite sedated for the time being
then to just loose it all
In the fight of the stomach acids and the food
This will **** you,
but you still puke
Bulge on burgers and Shakes
then to loose it to the bowl
I used eat
then loose it
I bulged on burgers and shakes
I used to be
anorexic
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Not too distant beach tree sways in distance
Mandala Rorschach blot patterns dance like celebrating Salish drum circle
There's a hallow college sound of crime show to my left
Bickering with the occasional crush of,
**** my job is stressful."
A sleeping armadillo composed of quarks reflective within a drop of water
Fallen from the bottom-bulged North 49 canteen
A foot and 3/4ths away the snow-white generic of a ***** coffee mug formerly host to a Tetley green stands silent
Reminiscent of the eternal stillness of a mountain range
Fibonacci's name rings inexplicably from tilting branches
And I can't help but wonder if I would be grasping his hand in grasping a branch.
19 years alive and I can't help asking if I've grown-up too fast
Or simply grown into myself.
I feel old
young
and somewhere indescribable most of the time
and it's funny I cannot even fathom the length of 22 years.
A deflated balloon yellow like trend pants or sunrise sits like dejected missile
No longer screaming towards Gaza
No longer screaming.
A Holiday Inn Express pen sits with a ready-call number
Part of its mustang flame
If its quality of penmanship has any parallel to hotel service
Perhaps I'll stick with hostels.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Eat then to toss it up,
Appetite sedated for the time being
then to just loose it all
In the fight of the stomach acids and the food
This will **** you,
but you still puke
Bulge on burgers and Shakes
then to loose it to the bowl
I used eat
then loose it
I bulged on burgers and shakes
I used to be
anorexic
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
If, entrusted were I, with a magical purse,
one that held what was needed, but not monies curse.
One that neither bulged, nor would ever be empty,
so when I reached down within, there I'd find plenty.
A handful of tolerance, I would pull each day,
to pass out to those in need, I met along the way.
I would take a fist full of hope, to toss aloft.
Scatter it among the throng, letting it land soft.
I would enter into the turf of gangs and their wars.
Trading peace for their guns, so they would **** no more.
I would go to Washington, there I would invest,
two handfuls of honesty, perhaps ten, would be best.
Charity, I would share, with those who live large.
Help them to give some away, so no one need starve.
I could change so many things and alter many lives.
But, I could also do harm and make so many cry.
As it is so easy, to think one self's above,
to take control of lives, forgetting about love.
So for myself, I'd take a bit to keep myself humble.
So that I and my purse, never, ever stumble
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
didn't shower
sitting in the cubicle
for long hours
didn't shower
and blood
is still on hands
and feet are still riddled
with dirt
staining cheap
carpet floorprint
afraid to touch
anything
coworkers peer
over
their fabric palisades
eyes burning holes
through ripped shirt
and crooked tie
head down
don't exist
no one has to
know a thing
didn't shower
hair is manged and
disoriented
I can feel blood
drip off fingertips
pat - pat - pat
on bland slate
carpet design
can't concentrate
didn't shower
everyone stares
black eye
swollen and scabbed
everyone knows
have to
it's all puddling at feet
washing with the dirt
look away
******* look away!
head is severed
on the mahogany finish desk
black eye bulged
black and purple tennis ball
everyone gathers
whispers whispers
jaw opens
teeth fall out
pat - pat - pat
no one says anything
look away look away
look away
get up to leave
the head stays there
dark souvenir
quick drive
home
shower
hours melt away
infirmities recede
sink back below skin
didn't shower
everyone knew
what happened
last night
but now
no evidence
no witnesses
no one knows
the perfect crime
a cruel smile
emerges on
bare white teeth
as night sets in once again
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses...
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind, I'm blind!'
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
'I can't' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting Next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
* * *
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
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He stared at the lines on his hands for a moment,
his fingers in particular;
the candlelight had fallen just right,
making it clear that the wrong side of thirty
was approaching at the speed of light.
He pulled up his socks,
slipped on his DCM shoes.
Tying the left one with care, he shook his head;
the laces were worn,
and the mere thought of being spotted
walking with a limp was of such … dire concern
that it forced a rather vinegary
fish-and-chips
up, into his throat.
Adam’s Apple bulged when he stroked the Bible;
on the bedside table
he’d taken a swig of bourbon from the bottle,
swallowed the sweet liquor like a child would a fable,
burped fire-fish stench,
picked up
the gloves and scalpel.
Dance.
Church.
******
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 11:21 PM UTC
You were made in March when the groundhogs sensed shadows
and the wine chilled itself in its glassy embrace
I was on whisky, watching late nights, and oh
The wires crossed and we did too near the fireplace
Winter shut the windows with its icy blast
and my rhythm quickened at Scene 4
where the door opened and the lady emerged
in a birthday suit and settled on the floor.
The cat scan showed your wiggly bits in May
and Momma smiled about the vortex of the man I made
growing plump and rich in a warmer climate inside
For nine long months the case of scotch disappeared
as you grew stronger and bulged out beautifully.
You were born in December when the lights went on
and Momma cuddled you chillfully!
In Jan you went to Nan. My impulses returned.
Feb came around rather quickly. A year gone
and a son born unblamed of the winter chill
or lusting whisky and late nights surging
outside/ inside wherever. I didn't name you
Jack Frost Junior for nothing.
There's a story behind every name, son!
Author Notes
Ha ha Ha.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
She was the face of the century.
We'd all believed the age of heroes was past
but she was the real thing -
brilliant, brave beyond belief and wise,
and the planet - the whole planet -
was proud to have her as ambassador.
And when the broadcast arrived,
proof that we had spanned the solar system
and set foot on another planet,
every Earthling eye gazed, every ear strained,
so as not to miss a word.
"..."
Martian sky. Red dust. Second transmission.
"...
"I know...
"I know you are watching me.
"I know that this is the moment,
"the moment you have waited for.
"Seven months ago I left you. It's hard
"to hold your breath for seven months!"
Across the globe, people laughed and gasped.
"Seven months."
A pause.
"Seven months, and enough money
"To end poverty
"across most of the Earth."
Heads were scratched.
Where was this going?
"Well, everyone, here I am.
"I can see you, you know. A star,
"A dot in the black - that's you.
"And that dot -
"Oh, that precious, beautiful dot!"
Eyes moistened. Friends embraced.
"Where every speck of dust is a home
"for something.
"Where even the forgotten scrapings
"Of last week's dinner
"plays host to LIFE!
"Air to breathe!
"Water to drink!
"So many, many things to love!"
Thirty two seconds of silence.
"Why did you send me here?"
Fifty three seconds of silence.
"This is hell."
And with that
she placed the camera on a tripod
stood before it
and removed her helmet.
The once fierce eyes
quickly bulged and reddened
skin puckered and peeled,
frost scorched and suffocated
lips, best known for forming momentous words
turned first blue then purple
and blood flowed freely
from her nostrils.
She slumped, fell,
knocked over the camera.
End of transmission.
The whole broadcast had lasted just seven minutes.
She was already dead by the time we heard the first word.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
pink scars
peppered her lithe limbs
flower petals incised
on peach skin
moss coursed
withered yellow-brick channels
sloping loosely down
the crooked river mouth
clouds bulged
glazed heavily over the sun
like a flashlight
engulfed in sheets
lightning sliced
the pane of sky splintered
air ignited instantly
and danced around us
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
*daddy screams and shouts, eyes burning with rage
mummy cries tears bitter with sage
brother is scared, eyes wide as moons
we all agree daddy has gone through menopause too soon
on our faces, we brush aside this sudden burst
"it's just nothing," we say, "he knows family comes first."
but the sight of him consumed is etched in the air
trapping the three of us in trauma's snare --
his eyes were livid, veins bulged from his neck
pulsing with the viscosity of a lava lake
he burned like blue fire, the kind that burns too hot
destroying everything around it, leaving death-clogged smog
i don't know why daddy is so angry today
till then, in our room, mummy brother and i will stay
i have never seen daddy so angered and flared
so distant with fury, so paralysingly mad
i fear for this family, i never have before this
this fear scares me, so i will make a list
i hope it will serve to place some of my fears
into linear thoughts, before it rains tears
first, daddy has always been holy and kind,
on his chest a cross, you would always find
but as he grows older, with hair turning grey,
with valley-deep wrinkles and memories gone astray,
he seems to forget, that i am human too
with his words, he beats me, beats me black and blue
criticisms and 'bad bad bad' ring through the house
if only he saw, he is the wolf that prowls
second, daddy had been a family man
the kind that spends a fortune flying us over land
but lately, he's just been out of touch and sight
sins queuing outside the door, waiting to enter at night
he seems to forget when i was a child
the cards i gave him, the way i made him smile
but i remember, when his hair was still black
in our family, love and warmth was never in lack
time, stop. return my daddy back to me.
stop this affair, i beg you; don't let age run free.
don't run through your fingers in his hair like that.
don't paint his hair grey, don't make it fall away.
give me the daddy my mummy met, back.*
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
I used to like you, a lot.
My heart soared when you called my phone
My eyes bulged when you texted me five years later
And you called me gorgeous
Something I’ve heard so many times but it only mattered when
You said it
To me
And I thought that those feelings were gone
And I suddenly can’t tell if it’s because you’re back or if they never went away
I’m missing you
But at the same time I’ve forgotten everything we did
It’s like I pushed it to the back of mind
And somehow it got lost
And it’s come all back to haunt me
My brain hurts
With those feelings
From 2013
Because the feelings I have for you now
In 2017
Don’t feel the same
So should I even try?
Where’s your head?
Why can’t you focus?
Why can’t you decide?
Why won’t you just understand
That he’s not it
And you’re better off alone
He’s just a reminder of everything
You could never be
Someone’s lover
Someone’s everything
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
*Three months old in my mother’s womb
Whispers I heard outside,
A man persuading mum
To destroy me
Because he doubted I was his.
I heard mum cried,
And felt her tears
Falling to her bulging belly,
My bed room,
A thunderous sound
That struck my universe
Almost tearing it apart.*
*The man talking to another man,
A professional killer of my kind,
I heard about the price of my life,
To destroy me
Worth only ‘$300’.
Mum’s heart beat faster,
Bringing blood like a mighty rushing wave
To my weak, gentle nerves and veins
Almost rapturing them apart.*
*Mum whispered
I heard while she cried,
“You are a gift and blessing to me,
My child, my beloved one.”
I will keep you,” She promised.
I tried to comfort mum but couldn't.
I conjured up ominous images
Of my shattered body,
My flesh, blood and bone;
It was too painful to bear.
So I stamped my feet
On my bed,
Her stomach bulged,
And I felt mum embraced me,
With her gentle hands.*
*From the smallest corner of her heart
Next to her bulging belly,
My bed room,
I heard mama interceded with God
For the forgiveness of the sins
And comfort of thousand women
Who aborted their pregnancies
Due to **** pregnant while breast feeding,
Incestuous affairs, teenage pregnancies
Or on medical conditions
For the physical and emotional pains
They endured and guilt that may have lingered still.*
*In her bulging stomach,
My bed room, my home,
I waited for my eviction,
Every day.
Then one day, after a long wait,
It rained cats and dogs
With muds of blood
In my bedroom.
I tried to cling to the roof of my bed room,
But was swept away by the natural disaster
Through the channel of life
Into my mother's gentle arms.*
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Let us fumble, scratch,
slash, claw
through endless Autumn fields
cut from hushed velvet,
hushed velvet and husks.
You say at night
my voice rounds, softens,
grows heavy.
Breeze rustles twigs,
lulls, a lullaby floats over
from the farmhouse.
Fields fill with dust,
bone homes, crackling
with seed ticks and mice.
I think of fruit, the toil
of warm flesh, how it bulged,
slumped off and rotted.
You ask how I could have forgotten
harvest, entered the slumber,
reaped nothing?
The Moon blooms, ripens the sky.
I stop, squat,
trace circles in the sand.
This year I just don't have the heart.
-kevin mann
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
Late in the year and in the night,
A ghostly giant came into sight,
It slowly trailed and bulged the ancient causeway,
Intent on hiding out of harms way.
A magnificent beast from the age of sale,
Came into port to shelter from the winter storms and gales,
It groans and creaks from 50 sheets and rattles,
Like a wounded whale with its brass decor and iron chattels.
The body built of wood and steel,
With copper wrapped around it's keel,
To guard its cargo of rarest spice, silks and precious metals,
It puffed and steamed along like a giant boiled kettle.
It has travelled far with many scars,
Battled continents and violent seas with ease,
From the cape around the horn,
And onto the west indies.
It seeks and finally finds its place to rest and moor,
But alas the storm that winter did not pause,
It reached and breached the gates and harbour walls,
The fox was in through failing doors.
It attacked the beauty in its finest fettles,
Her belly broke from bow to stern,
It sharply shifts and lists while the candles burn,
Then sinks down to the bottom where it groans and settles.
It's fate and history long forgotten,
But for local shanty hymns,
The bulk is left but timbers rotten,
With cut back beams and withered limbs.
From endless tides it now resides,
Out of site and local memory,
Through rusted tears it counts the years,
Underneath a sea of nettles.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
Like blood slowly
ballooning into a tiny orb
from a pin *****
It simply swelled
and bulged…
As it clung precariously
upon the tip of my nib.
A slight tremble,
almost a hesitation -
seemingly afraid to take
the leap of faith.
Afraid to take the plunge,
only to wilfully break
the expanse of blank parchment.
Afraid to taint the whiteness
with the ruthlessness
of indelible black.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 2:28 PM UTC
I was limping the edge of the pond so as to confirm in the world my clearance given to me as before by frogs. my punched nose was warm and my grief melted from it and I cupped my hands together for the blood and what mixed with it and when the cup was full I halved it and my already thick shoelaces thickened. soon into this drama one frog jumped from the pond and I was startled. startled too that indeed it was no frog but a toad or some form of toad. I followed it woozily from my father’s land onto the land of my enemy. the toad was dull save for its hop from water and save for its courage and save for a sickly orange spot on its back that was a star when the toad paused and a mangled star otherwise. a couple times I lost the toad, the land was new, but I knew to stop and the toad knew to rustle or in my more desperate moments to come wholly back. everything had been planned and my body wanted to be generous to the toad and it was hard not to run or use my hands or ruin this paradise that I knew then as vengeance but now as existential plagiarism which is nonetheless vengeance. I would not rub the toad over me and I had to convince myself repeatedly. the boy was no doubt inside the house as his dog was not to be seen but his sister was sprawled on two towels put short end to short end as she was very tall and her sunglasses were cocked enough so that her right eye could see mine. the toad was in her mouth immediately and then her throat bulged but was back to its original in no time. I lost the toad forever then but its orange star surfaced on the right and then the left of her belly button. I told her I would see her at school and I would but this was the last time I would see her in anything but an overcoat and the boy would try and come close but never again pin me down.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Her hands were so sticky and started to swell
Ugly, red, burgeoning paddles
convulsion nervously at her sides and then at her mouth as she held back a whimper
(The neighbors were still fighting
so no one would have heard anyway.)
Anyway
Her eyes bulged
as heart heart felt heavy, then light again, then heavy
When her eyes began to swim, she tried
she did
she tried to get to a telephone
but instead she collapsed
like an egg from the carton
and laid there
until the neighbors stopped fighting.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
once there was a man.
he wandered twisting caverns
without a thought,
swaying as he walked.
he came upon a button
on the rotting ground
and stooped low to pick it up,
holding it between careless fingers.
then there was a man with a button.
his ambling gait aimless
among crumbling walls of dirt,
and ceilings of the same.
he came upon a needle,
rusted but neatly threaded,
squatting to look and struggling
to grab it between nonexistent nails.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle,
turning endless corners
with a hand brushing along every wall.
he came upon a soft, dark shirt
and bent to pick it up,
noticing that, upon inspection,
it was missing a button.
then there was a man with a button and
a neatly threaded needle, wearing a dark shirt.
his eyes scanned the rotting ground,
holding the needle and button in a tense hand.
he came upon a pair of linen pants,
midnight black and tailored well.
he stepped into them, tucked in his shirt,
and continued on his meandering way.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants
stumbling through dank tunnels.
he came upon a pair of shined onyx shoes
and put them on without pomp,
leaning against the crumbling walls
to lift each foot into a shoe.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants,
dragging shined shoes through never-ending passages.
he came upon a suit jacket,
noticing that the pockets bulged with a pair of gloves
as he knelt to don it. he slipped the
gloves onto shaking hands.
once there was a man dressed for a funeral,
a man who was under the impression that
he had no occasion to attend in such attire,
a man who continued to wander infinite caverns.
he came upon a chamber
with sobered steps and saw a fitting sight.
A casket lay in the center of the room,
surrounded by wilted roses on the rotting floor.
then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who looked to his left and beheld
a veiled woman in spectacular mourning dress,
whose cold hands reached to hold his own.
her delicate fingers came upon the button
and neatly threaded needle. she surveyed
his garb and found the spot where his shirt
was missing a closure.
then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who, legs shaking, allowed a veiled woman
to expertly sew the button back onto his shirt.
a voice came from behind the veil:
"pay your respects."
his legs seemed to move without his say
to the center of the room.
he watched as his arms, no longer his own,
lifted the ebony lid to reveal
a beautiful cream silk lining,
bright against the Stygian casket,
gently cradling a man dressed for a funeral
with a mismatched button sewn to his shirt.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 3:39 PM UTC