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Wade Redfearn Mar 2010
When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well

Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?

There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then

Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?

Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
Retreat
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died

Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
then:

nothing

“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”

He sobs,
it sounds like
war.
Just ask me. Also, if anybody knows any more appropriate French surnames (read:one that isn't a variety of cheese), please, I invite your reaction.
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.

You cant read my mind
read my lips
read my body
read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying

Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside
for shamefully purchased tampons
instructions included

and time has passed
and masks have fallen
and I find you there in the muck and the mire
and dust you off
until

I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
This poem was inspired by and dedicated to Eve Ensler and her book 'I am an Emotional Creature' which expresses girlhood in relation to men and women as something which we are all encouraged to surpress.  This is a snippet of my girlishness - the girl I was, am and will always be.
Written 2011
L B Mar 2017
The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home

The right winter
for arctic pin-***** wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river

But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays

While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her “*****”

Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls

Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench 
        past Plum Island
into the sea— into me

What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?

Let them find each other there
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/240872280040374240/

I never knew anything about Jack Kerouac, and only today, learned that he breathed his last on my 20th birthday in 1969, just as I came to his sad hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts to endure a baptism of my own.
Poetic T Dec 2016
Yes you did read the title correctly, a little kitten that couldn't meow and this is her story:

Cotton lived on a farm and she was having a baby,
but where cats have a litter [a lot of kittens]
For her she was seen by the vet and told she had only
                       one single baby,
this was cottons happiest moment.

The day came and all the animals were ready to
see a new addition brought in to there little piece
of heaven. And with the vet there to help little
cottons baby in to the world, the animals heard
the voice of the vet say its a baby girl.

With happiness all the animals gathered in celebration,
but unbeknown to them cotton was learning smudge
[yes smudge] she was a kaleidoscope of colour.
Her first words which was meant to be MEOW.
but the words were drowned out in the  celebration,
so many noises, that hers was missed out.

A few animals stayed after the celebrations to
see the new born, including Betty the cow,
Frankie the dog and Barbra the sheep.
Cotton was a little worried that Smudge hadn't
spoken her first word so she spoke to her.

"My little miracle,
"Speak to mamma, I need to hear your words.

Smudge looked in confusion but uttered what she
thought was the word her mummy needed to hear.

"Mummy, I will speak my voice,

And with that she took a breath in, and released it on
to her mothers ears.

"Meaoooooooooo,

The cow looked as its jaw dropped, "Mooooo, the other
cow said that's an udder statement.

Cotton looked and was taken aback by her daughters new words,
that wasn't expected and laughed.

"Mummy my voice why does it not sound like yours,
                
"Don't worry my child mummy will help you find it again,

Once again the little one listened to its mummy purr, then
with a deep breath she let out a beautiful "Meow,
it was like music to the daughters ears.

"Mummy that was beautiful, I want to sound like you,

A tear fell from her mothers eye,

"You will my darling smudge, let us give it another try,

So with nervous looks all around, smudge took a breath in
a with mighty exhale she gave out a "Mea-woof woof,
Frankie the dog just looked on in amazement.....

"That was howling amazing, I mean bark, bark..

As the vet entered the barn, surprised to see the animals all
watching this little one yawn, then slumber to sleep.
"How's mummy,
As she stroked Cottons fur she purred with delight at the
fuss that was being pampered to her.

Then as the vet left in her van, all the animals were staring
through the window to see if it was OK to talk.
All slept until the morning and as all awoke, noises were
heard first was Betty the cow "mooning, then Frankie the
dog, "I feel woof, I think I slept wrong, Barbra the sheep awoke
coughing, she said I think I have a frog in my throat.

Barbra coughed again, and out popped a frog "Ribbit,
"Sorry madam it was so warm in there,
Everyone was giggling as well as Betty.

"Now that I have cleared my throat,

Cotton smiled and gently ushered her daughter awake,
"Morning smudge,

She yawned and smiled at her mummy, rubbing her eyes
looking around to see her mummies friends eagerly waiting
to hear that needed voice to reappear..

"Mummy I was counting sheep when I went off to sleep,
Barbra smiled as her herd used the barn as a short cut to the field.

"Glad we could help Cotton,

Cotton yawned and a purr and meow came forth, a little tear
was in Smudges eye. Her mother saw and pawed it away,
Don't worry my little one once we find it you'll be using it
everyday. She smiled and jumped up and down on her tiny
paws, lapping up her milk she licked her whiskers and
looked at her mummy and said I think I can do it.

Looking proud she let out a what she hoped was her true
voice and with that she said let put in her cutest little voice

"meow, meow, meow,

Her mummy looked on proud as any mother could be,
everyone cheered that this little smudge had spoken
her true voice. "mummy, mummy was that me?

Barbra gave a sigh of relief as smudge didn't release
a Ba, Ba meow, she thought "I would have looked
rather sheepish if she had giggling she looked on.

Smudge was jumping up and down and happy as
anyone finding there voice could be. Cotton spoke
and said words of wisdom to her little one.

"If at first you don't succeed, always try again,

"And you did and now your true voice has been set free,

The farm was so happy that the new addition had now
found what was lost, and all that was heard was a very
proud kitten singing to the top of her voice.

*"Meow, "Meow, Meow,
Raphael Cheong Sep 2014
What has become of us
Amidst the hustle and bustle of city life
When did evolution condone us to regress into a state
Of uncalculated caucus
As we meander our way through the rapids of life

Rapid
Is hardly a best-fit descriptor
For we are past the point of speed
We mill around like headless horses
Buzzing bees
Stinging roaches
Fallen leaves
Roaring lions
Try to lead
But fail
Like cottons fighting breeze

Is this all we are?
Is this what we were made for?
To quickly climb the climb
And await the graceless fall
Parachutes prepared for praise
But our pride prevents and prevails

Till the day I climb the ladder
Shall I not attempt to see
What the view at the top might be like
I fear it enthralls me
But then reality strikes like a maddening blaze
And suddenly I see
That I'm well on my way up the hill
As I swing from bridge to bridge

Is this the way to live?
Uncautious steps with kleptomaniac ease
As we take what we desire
From our capitalistic divider
Though we hate to be the same
Not at all do we differ
Are we not all blinded mice
With a tetra-human vice
Spiders apt at spinning lies
Banking life on Friday highs

All around me boring beasts
Lost to whims, to say the least
What I fear most is the day
I give in and join the race
Is the day I eat my heart out
Just to enjoy the highest gaze

Till then here trapped in the zoo
Enclosure encasing truth

Finding fault with every human till the day I conform too
Ryan Holden Apr 2018
I can’t repaint the start
Nor it’s tenderness
To understand
The complexity
Of it’s cottons -
But know I am soft,
And I will always
Keep your heart
Warm.
The flowers of cottons
Are now the texture of my sweaters
Peacful pink cottons
Can they bear cold waters?
Or they used to play with the coffee spots?
Handle your hat made by cottons
Soft as those rings of saturn
Love its imperfection pattern
valencia May 2019
September

from dust and broken glass, from silver and stone, an army arises from their shallow graves. and to this day, no one can remember that this is how it all began.

demons run when a good man goes to war.
that’s what they have always told me. there haven’t been any good men here for a while then, because I can still see demons lurking around corners like shadows.


there have always been things in my life I have learned not to question. you do not doubt the stars in the sky, the ground beneath your feet, or the strength of the northernland. we do not question the northernland.

i like to ask myself questions-
after the sky fell, who gathered it all up and put it back in the sky?
they won’t tell us in school.
when the sky fell, what did the stars taste like?
i think it would taste like fire and pain and sugar, like drinking lighting hot lemonade in the summer.
we don’t ask in school.

thursday



there has never been enough. money, food, water. in school, they teach us about the war. the war has no name, it is just the war. maybe it will someday. no one dares to name it. you do not name the devil.

we bow to the throne of the northernland, unaware that is was born of lies. the cameras are our leader now. they are all we have ever known.

on Sundays we go to church and pray. the crosses will never hang right and are always turning upside down and the priest is always looking pale. we all look pale, now. the cloud of dust from northernland blocks out the sun most days.


friday
I went to Lou's house today. she has a red front gate and ivy growing in her garden. we kicked a deflated kickball around for a bit, but she kept looking over her shoulder. she pretended to drop the ball behind her but couldn't bend down to grab it because her arm is broken, so I went over. tears were hiding beneath her eyes, but she did not say anything. then her dad came out and watched us play. i didn’t like his smile, it was too wide.




when i wanted to go home, he offered to walk me home. i said i could do it by myself. wouldn’t want you to get into trouble he said, somehow smiling wider. lou made herself laugh and smiled too, but it wasn’t a real smile. as we walked home, he didn’t turn his head away from me, even to cross the street. i looked deep into his pupils, which were so wide they covered the colored part. i swore i could see someone behind them, watching. i didn’t say anything. after i went into my house,
he stood out front for a long time, watching. then i heard. shout from the basement but the door was locked as always so i got scared about that instead and when i looked out front again he was gone.

saturday

today in school i fell and skinned my knuckles. the blood that came was strange, reddish-orange. teacher grabbed my hand and bandaged it right away before i could get a good look at it. she said you mustn’t tell your mother.


teacher doesn’t know that mother went to go live in the White Building, a place for people who hear voices and don’t like the government and have to be restrained so they don’t hurt people. i don’t say any of this, i just nod my head ok.

sometimes i worry, about alistair. he’s a gravedigger and everyday when he comes home he looks so empty. he won’t tell me why he’s so sad but once i heard him tell canary that the graves just get bigger everyday and then after a long time he said but there are always to many bodies

i tried to listen more but he found me behind the wall and when i asked him why there were so many bodies he said there’s a sickness, that’s all
then after that teacher made us all wear cottons masks that are itchy and make it hard to breathe.


sunday

on the telly today the man in the suit announcer we had another victory but i don’t understand how we can have victories without winning the war. the man in the suit tried to show a picture but all we saw was a blurry mess because alistair said sometimes things can’t be shown on the telly but i don’t know why. i doesn’t make sense why they would restrict anything anymore. we now what it looks like. a flat landscape paved with bodiesaccented with blood.
we aren’t supposed to know about that though.

in school, teacher tells us there have been no casualties of the war. but only when principal is watching. when he’s not she’s stuffs our coats beneath the crack and the door and tunes the telly to a different station- one that’s fuzzy that she has to hold a hanger to in order for us to see anything. and she’ll flip back and forth between leader of the northernland and say this is propagandam  and then turn the **** back to the man in the suit, and then say this is the truth

i don’t know why teacher tells us these things.

monday

listen- do you hear it? i can hear planes buzzing overhead. teacher says to ignore it. teacher says we aren’t supposed to hear.
alistair never lets me go in the basement. he keys the key round his neck, even when he’s sleeping. he says it’s dangerous down there. but i’ve always been too curious- that’s what principal says. he looks at me with those stern different colored eyes and says curiosity killed the cat every time ms. hoth brings me to his office for doodling. i still have no idea what a cat is. cardeully, he erases my drawings and put the paper neatly into his desk. we waste nothing here. go home is all he says. but i know what he means. walk home in silence and do not ask questions, do not look behind curtains and do not wander off.

today mari has her birthday party. her mum wasn’t there. i can tell lou noticed because her eyes were scanning the room all strange, but she didn’t say anything. i didn’t ask. mari looked all scared and the camera of the ceiling fan hadn’t moved from her in a long time. i wondered who was watching her.

later, mari pulled me beneath her bed. i tried to say something but she covered my mouth with her hand. they’ll take me for telling you
was all she said.
but i have to tell someone.

i knew the feeling.
after a long time she took her hand off of my mouth and said mums in the garden








while she opened her presents, the mandatory ones from the northernland that are no fun, i tried to look out the window to see her mum. the only thing i could see in the garden was a pile of freshly turned earth. lou caught me looking and grabbed my wrist. she said you mustn’t look.


tuesday
when i come home there is a woman sitting at the kitchen table, and with her there are four ravens. she is royal, i can feel it in the way she sits and breathes and just exists. she looks at her hands and then at me. but this lady is not a guardian angel, like the kind canary says is always looking out for us. i am not an angel. she says. she is not from the northernland, but not from here either. i know is all i say, because i am not alarmed that she is here and that there are cameras and that she does not belong. i know she is not real. and she says i am a godess. i do not doubt her. she sits up, and puts the ravens about her in her hair and on her shoulders and the like. this is an omen. i nod, because why else would a goddess be at my kitchen table? and then she is gone because she was never really there, and i wash my face and make sure i am no longer seeing people that are not there, because i don’t want to go live in the White Building like mum.


wednesday

they are always watching us at recess- we mustn’t stand or walk anymore. we have never been allowed to run. there are cameras everywhere now, too. they see everything like a great waking monster that never sleeps. i thought i would feel safe with the cameras, but the back of my neck feels prickly like there’s somebody standing behind me and when i spin around and look the mushroom is empty except for me.

the only place there aren’t cameras is under alistair bed. i go and hide there sometimes, just to forget the feeling of being watched. that’s where i read the stories that alistair’s written. in them, he talks about a sky as blue as the ocean.
i have never been to the ocean. i remember the sky used to be blue, but never really. now it is a sickly grey.
canary caught me looking at the sky once and pushed my head down. she said don’t let them catch you looking or they’ll put cameras in your eyes.
i believe her.

wednesday

today we went to mandatory meeting, where they passed out rations. there is always less and less then there was last time. while we were there they made us watch a video where the leader of the northernland talked about how well we were doing in the war and how this would almost be over soon. he also reminded us that if we were past curfew there would be serious punishments.
for rations we got a red powder called kool-aid that you mix with water to make juice. we also got a loaf of white bread, a browned banana, circular crackers and a warm jacket. alistair took the jacket and left for work.

canary always looks worried. ever since mom went bonkers i haven’t seen her not wearing her worry lines. i can’t believe she’s only six years older than me. to alistair that doesn’t seem like a long time. to me, six years is an eternity. as long as a war.

canary watched alistair go at the window for a long time, long after he disappeared into the fog. then, all of a sudden, she turned around and said i’ll help you with your homework. i didn’t tell her that i knew how to multiply fractions. mom always used to say that if you were busy you weren’t worried. canary made me a cup of red juice and her hands shook so much she dropped the glass.
pity, that was our last one. it seemed to shatter in slow motion, and i could see every piece break slower and slower.

the day seemed to go by slowly, the cold sleeping into my bones and making me sleepy. i wa so thirsty, so thirsty. i wasn’t allowed anymore water till friday though. if you drink to much of it at once you get sick. i begged canary to let me drink from the stream in the garden but she wouldn’t. it’s black and thick, and smells like nail polish.

the last time i punted my nails was for dads funeral. i remember canary used her last bottle of nail polish to paint my fingers black, so as not to have anybody see the dirt under my fingernails. it didn’t matter, in the end. we were the only ones who attended.

canary is flying together the pieces of the glass with tacky glue. i can’t bear to tell her that all the glue in the world would never be enough. the shards are too small. she’s fills it back up with red juice and fora moment all is well, but then the glass can’t take it anymore and collapses with force into her hands. kool-aid runs down her fingers like blood. intermixed is real blood, from the cuts the glass left. she looked at it for a long time, letting the blood run down her fingers like that.

then she said what a waste

november

alistair is sick. principal gave us ibuprofen but all it does it make him feel empty. he begs us not to give him more but it’s the only things that will take his fever down. he thrashes in bed and screams ****** ****** and i worry he is going to be like mom, always seeing things and hearing things. maybe he can go live with mom in the White Building. mom would like that, if she could remember alistair.

i have been sleeping at school, because canary doesn’t want me to get sick. the dorms are cold and empty and heavily sanitized. i miss canary and i miss alistair but canary won’t let me come home. i don’t know what she would do if i was sick. so i stay. and every night, i say to myself i hate the northernland i hate the northernland i hate
but i say it in my head,  because i am worried they will come for me.
sometimes i worry about canary getting sick. she says promise i wont, sunshine but i know she never worries about herself. teacher gave me flowers to send to alistair. the card says “get well soon” it has been a long time since i have seen real flowers. most are fake, like the ones teacher sent alistair. i don’t mind. it’s the sentiment that is important.





sunday

today at church preacher said and let us pray for our sick
they have stopped re adjusting the crosses. the remain upside down and no one looks. except me. i was looking, while we were supposed to be praying, but canary pushed my head down and said  pretend you can’t see them.
that’s  when i knew she sees things too.

saturday
i remember when i came home from school and found mum. there was paper all over the house, because she’s been doing her drawings. it was on the walls and floor and crinkled up under the boxes, all pictures of the northernland and the pastor and everything. and she said there is no god. there is no god. there is no god. alistair covered her mouth but it was too late, the northernland men were already here. she drew here pictures more violently scribbling and slashing with my art pencils. she drew alistair and canary and father, but not me or her. there was lump in my throat. she picked a new piece of paper and drew god, above us all, but she kept saying there are no gods there are no gods there are no gods, and she slashed and scribbled at the paper, and the northernland men were knocking, watching us through the cameras, and mum pulled me down next to her. i could see blood beneath my skin she held me so tight, and she had. a thousand stars in her eyes that were all spinning, saliva dripped down her chin and  she did not look my my mum anymore. she looked lost. she said the gods have abandoned us.


after the northernland men took her to live in the White Building, her drawings were left on the floor. alistair gathered them all up and threw them in the basement and locked the door. then he put the key around his neck. at least, i think that’s what’s in the basement. i have never told alistair, but i took the last drawing she did, of me and her and a boy. i stuck it with glue to the very back of my dresser drawer, so no one will ever find it. in the picture, my lips looks like there are sewn together with greenish yarn. this has always scared me. mums mouth is open and she is screaming, but there is no tounge inside her mouth. the boy looks normal, and he is holding my hand. this boy is not alistair. this has always scared me. this has always scared me. this has always scared me. it’s only a picture.



monday

i keep finding myself in that moment-
when canary broke the glass and cut her hands, spilling red juice and blood like lines on her hands. she sat there for a long time, just looking. maybe it’s stuck with me because she was just looking, when we’re never supposed to look.

the clocks tick slower and slower everyday.


tuesday

teacher wasn’t at school today. instead we have a woman with blinding hair and an accent from the northernland. nobody asked where teacher went.
we don’t want to know. the hanger and the telly were gone, too.

when i got home i was feeling really sick with tears. i told alistair they’ve taken teacher. his eyes widened and he ****** his head toward the camera. canary dig her fingernails into my arm. of course they haven’t was all he said. that’s silly.

then he looked off into nothing for a long time. i just looked straight into the camera.


wednesday

at recess the northernland woman was acting real strange. she sat with us on the pavement and when the camera tune we it’s invasive x-ray eyes away she whispered your teacher has been taken by the northernland.

nobody said anything. nobody says anything, anymore. i think if we even spoke to many of us would cry. and then the cameras would look at us. so we just stared into space.
in our hearts, we already knew. but i still wanted to scream.


thursday

today was idyllic. sun came through the smoke and lit the sidewalk up orange. the woman from the northernland asked us what we would want if we could have any powers. almost everyone said healing. i said flying. maybe it’s because i’m selfish, all i want to do is fly away. but maybe it’s because i’m honest. i’m getting tired of not hearing the truth.

just to see if i could do it i ran all the way home. my feet seemed to leave the ground, its was as if i was actually flying every time i took a step. but then i landed and took off again.
i hadn’t run in a long time.
my chest seemed to hurt with a good  pain, if pain can be good.
i wanted to tell alistair but canary wouldn’t let me see him. i just need to you to get warm was all she said. over and over. but i’m boiling he said. it was quiet for a long time. it’s going to be alright. she said it again. twice. three times.

you know that feeling when you feel sick to your stomach, not because of disease but of fear. and mixed up in that sickness are tears and realization and you feel weak and helpless.  that’s how i felt when they took mum. that’s how i feel now.

i don’t know why, but a sudden hatred for the northernland boils up in my stomach. i think i am going to be sick. i turn around and run, run as fast as i can until i am at a strange gravel alleyway hidden behind some trees. i rest there for a long time, looking into the darkness after the cliff face. i know where i am. i am in the abyss, a place forbidden so long ago by alistair i had never thought to come here. i don’t break rules, i just ask questions. but i am here. at the abyss. where nobody should ever be.

friday
death is a sense. just like touch or smell, death is a feeling. i could feel it in my heart. in my bones and in my veins. it crowded about our house like fog in the summer. and all i wanted in the world was for it to go away.

teacher today told us about the northernland, how it was kind and safe and loved it’s people. the lie seemed to cuddle in her throat. nobody has ever gotten kindness from the northernland. the northernland started the war and has starved and survieled us to no avail. i know there was a time before, but i do not understand how that could have been. but i still haven’t  made peace with the cameras.


the abyss is where people go to go crazy. your screams bounce off the walls of the hole, but you cannot see them because it does not have edges. you cannot see the bottom or the sides of anything, just darkness. then the northernland men in the gas masks come in their yellow trolley and take you away. the abyss is where the devil lives, in a bottomless hole to the middle of the world.







saturday

i met a boy who lives in the abyss. he is made of sunshine and glitter, and plastic and paint and peace and everything that is beautiful.

but he is not really there. instead, he is almost see through. sometimes he is there and sometimes he is not. i know he isn’t real, just an imaginary friend. i am not like mum, who saw imaginary people and thought they were becoming real.

i did not say much to enyo, instead i said the only thing i was thinking. saying it made me feel sick.

i think alistair is going to die.













as i said it, it echoed off the walls of the cliff.
suddenly it was all too much. i was all too much. my heart started beating fast and my mouth felt dry and i stood up. i didn’t mean to cry but i did, big wet tears the dried my skin. i don’t want him to die. i said over and over.
my words echoed against the cliffs, i didn’t  sound like me.
HE CANT DIE
i shouted. HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE  CANT


i woke up a long time later next to enyo. i looked into the void that filled the space between the cliffs and the beyond. i wonder of that’s where heaven is i said. i pointed into the nothingness that felt all consuming. enyo said nothing. he looked as empty as i felt.
a long silence later i said he’s not going to die is he? enyo looked me in the eyes for the first time and i realized his were a beautiful black, layer upon layer of black and brown. he said what do you fear more, the echo or the answer

but enyo was not there at all. he is only imaginary.




sunday

preacher came again to the house and said that alistair is better. that his fever had broken. i didn’t know fevers could break. i asked him about what being sick feels like, and he took me outside to the garden and we sat on the piles of rubble that used to be the neighbors. he said that your brain gets confused, and everything seems fuzzy and mixed up. i can’t help but think that must be awful for alistair, he was always orderly.

monday
today mari has her birthday party. her mum wasn’t there. i can tell lou noticed because her eyes were scanning the room all strange, but she didn’t say anything. i didn’t ask. mari looked all scared and the camera of the ceiling fan hadn’t moved from her in a long time. i wondered who was watching her. i know who was watching her.


tuesday

i go down to the cliffs, but enyo isn’t there. schools closed for sanitization, so i have nothing to do.  i swing my legs off the edge for a long time. i don’t dare say anything, i hate how it echoes back. i look deep into the bottom but i can see nothing.  it is only darkness. something at the bottom feels like is calling to me, tugging at me to come. i turn my back.
was this before or after the preacher came? i am trying to remeber in order, tell you this story radially like teacher says.

i go home and canary’s there waiting at the window. she says here i’ll help you with your homework. no, no, no NO NO NO NO NO NO. that did not happen after, that happened before.

i can hear the ticking of the clock in my ears, slowing down.
maybe i’m going crazy.


wednesday
i’m sitting on a bench, but i cannot remember where. enyo is beside me and he is talking. in my chest i feel something strange, like it is moving and jumping. i feel queasy but it also feels nice.
i look over and he’s bleeding, golden blood from his eyes and mouth running down his chest. i want to scream but it stops in my throat. enyo puts a finger to my lips and the scream goes away.

he isn’t bleeding anymore. we’re holding hands. are we holding hands? teacher tells us not too, it will make us sick. but enyo is different. enyo doesn’t go to school. i feel as if my hands are sweating but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t say anything.





i wake up cold. it felt so real, it all felt so real. my arms feel heavy.
i’m alone on a bench by the abyss. smoke fills the air and makes it hard to breathe.

friday
mari wansnt at school today. i know the northernland took her, broken bones and all. i remebemer becaus lou told me while alistair was sick. but that was days ago. i am sorry, it’s just so hard to tell the story in the proper order. my head hurts.

tuesday
i’m sorry if i cross out bits, it’s just that as i understand more i change the words. doctor says to stop doing this, but i want you to know the truth. the clocks are going slower and slower lately. alistair can’t work anymore, the preacher said so. i was going to tell him about enyo, how he is real now, not imaginary, but i didn’t know how. there aren’t words to describe him. looking at him makes crows beat their wings beneath my ribs, but i don’t know why. I sit with alistair after class but i can’t think of much to say. he doesn’t seem like my brother anymore, just a body lying on the floor.



thursday
doctor says i am defamilirazing myself, telling the story like it did not happen to me. telling it in all the wrong bits. i will try and tell it in the right order, but my head hurts. my head hurts so much. doctor won’t tell me why i need to explain, what the tape recorders are for or the make i have to wear the mask or why i’m here, what happened to my family. he won’t tell me why every time i say it like it was in the past and not happening right now he checks me for a fever. all he tells me is to start at the begging.

friday
the blonde woman from the northernland has a ring in her nose, but i do not know why. when i ask her she doesn’t seem to understand. she doesn’t talk anymore, either. just points at things on the board. i dreamt that she had her tounge cut off, but that was just a dream. the northernland would never do that to someone.

saturday
alistair is dead.
preacher says the disease took him, but i do not know which. the real sickness or the brain washing of the northernland. i think it was both, because the sickness made his brain weak so the mind-poisoners could break in. it’s okay, he wasn’t my brother anymore. doctor says that i never loved him.

sunday
church has ended and we are walking home, just arrived when our door opens. i wonder who would w at to come to this house, where the walls smell like death. the northernland woman is at our door, standing in the place the cameras cannot see her. she is smart. canary opens it and the northernland woman opens her mouth. there is no tounge or teeth, and the sides of her throat are black. i scream, so loud and shrill that i cannot believe that i am making this noise. my heart is in the center of the earth, fear running through my brain and i am screaming. canary covers my mouth. it doesn’t matter, the cameras were already looking.

canary pushed me to the floor and dragged me under the bed. i could feel the cameras following us the entire way. when she sat up, her pupils looked strange, the ways moms did when she ways seeing the people in the walls. anger seemed to hide in her voice, she was trying not to be loud but to me it felt like she was screaming, she had never thrown words that hit me like knives before. she told me never to scream or else the men behind the spying eyes of the camera would come for me. what would i do without you she yelled, but it wasn’t yelling it was crying. she help me close to her chest and i could feel her breathing and her heart beating, sparratic and short. she cried into my hair, until it was soaking wet with tears. this was when i knew canary was lost.

tuesday
enyo is in the void, just there. he is very pale today, and he doesn’t say anything for a long time. we have gotten to holding hands now. i have never held hands with anyone, and my fingers feel strange and clumsy. tecaher used to say that touching was against the rules, but i am so sick of rules that i am now glad to break them.
all at once, it occurs to me that there could be cameras here. there are cameras everywhere. i don’t know why this has never occurred to me before. suddenly i dont care, i want them to see. i stand up and scream as loud as i can.


thursday
after i screamed, no one came for me. even when i go back, i don’t feel safe anymore. i ruined the only place i felt safe.


saturday
enyo is gone. i go everyday and yell for him, but he left when i screamed. he is still missing. i’m worried for him, but at least i know the northernland has not taken him. a sick feeling in my stomach asks me if enyo was ever real. i know he was. but it is still there, pulling at my head. of course he was. i felt his skin, rough and broken. imagination can’t conjure up real people.
but then i think of mom. how her fever got so high she started to see people that weren’t there. my head hurts so much, like someone is trying to break out of jail in my skull. i am angry, for the first time in my life. enyo was my only friend, the only one who could see through the blanket of the northernland skies. i scream for him ENYO ENYO ENYO ENYO ENYO ENYO, but i am not mad, i am crying and crying so much and loud that someone puts their hand over my mouth, but there is no one there. i am suffocating. i turn around and i can’t breathe, my vision is tunneling into the abyss.
i am sick.



someone is holding my body, but their skin is cold. i open my eyes but i can only see shapes. i am on the gravel and the sun is orange, just like always. i am alone. but can feel someone’s tears, touching my cheeks. i sit up as fast as i can, and i am seeing stars but i just need to look. we are never supposed to look but i am going to see.


the northernland is punishing me.
enyo is making me sick.


enyo is there beside me, crying. i have never seen him cry and something rises inside me, and all i want to do is put my arms around him, so i do. slowly he gets warmer and feels more solid. let the cameras watch, let them see.


sunday
im running, running by the tips of my feet and pushing me off the ground, i’m flying. i have to get home.  i think of the first time i ran, letvthe cameras watch, talked to enyo. all the times i’ve broken the rules. i has always hated the northernland, but i had witnessed something better. i had talked to enyo, heard stories of what it was like before. a hatred so strong curcdled beneath my ribs and made me want to punch someone. i ran and ran and ran and ran, shouting HE CANT DIE
i shouted. HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE CANT DIE HE  CANT.     he is going to die.






monday
i saw a raven in the wire pole today. it was big against the grey sky and he watched me as i walked into the house. i hadn’t seen a raven in a long time, so i turn to enyo to tell him he looks like a raven. he smiles, but he is. if there. enyo was never there.

wednesday
alistair has gone back to work, though i think he shouldn’t have. he tells me the symptoms of the disease when he gets home. headache,seeing things, bleeding from your insides. i play with the ring on my finger, trying not to ask if that’s what happened to mom. i open my mouth but a rock lives there, and i cannot move it without crying.


sunday
doctor tells me to get off the floor, that i can stand now. i stand up and he puts me on the table. he is old and pale, with shiny grayish eyes. tell me what happened to alistair he says. i do not understand. what happened to alistair?

friday
mari wansnt at school today. i know the northernland took her, broken bones and all. i remebemer becaus lou told me while alistair was sick. i go home alone, and cold. i feel like there is a little green man in my lungs running a garden hose. i think back to the time when i ran, the first time i broke the rules. nobody came for me.
i can’t run anymore, my arms feel heavy and when i cough thick red bloods comes out of my mouth. it must be the smoke. I go home, and canary is at the window. she is crying in reckless abandon, shamshing on the door with her fists. two men from the northernland are holding her back, and one hits over the head with a black stick. alistair is being carried out on a stretcher.
look what the northernland has done to my family. all for the sake of this stupid war. i can’t remember who we’re fighting and yet my sister and my brother have died for the cause.
enyo says they are not dead. but enyo is not there, he was never there.

wednesday
i screamed again. i know canary told me not to, that cameras would look into my eyes and into my head. but i saw the northernland man coming up the street in his yellow trolley, straight for lou’s house. when the door opens she is wheeled out on a stretcher. so i screamed, because lou is dead and the war with no name had killed her. the devil had killed her.

canary grabbed me as the camera looked at me, as every camera in the house was trained on me. there was a disturbance in her eyes i had never seen before, like she was not all there. she grabs my arms and is much stinger than she should be. she opens the basement door and i scream again, because now i know what’s in the basement.








more northernland men than i have ever seen are in the basement, and when the door opens they look up. somebody take sme from canary and i scream and writhe and kick, but they pull at my body until my skin tears.





when i wake up, i am holding very still, and i cannot move if i want too. doctor says this is called  paralysis. there is a very bright light and a searing pain, it’s hurts so much my body is burning. cascades of blood come down into my mouth, and someone is sticking my lips with pins. this hurts more than anything that  has ever happened to me. it hurts in a deep ache, not just on the surface, and my entire body wants to shudder. my lungs are filling up with blood, because it hurts to much to breathe.





saturday
when i wake up i am in my bed, in my house. more relief than i have ever felt washed over me, because it was just a nightmare.

i used to have nightmares where there was a man in my room, saying numbers out of order. but then preacher says that if i talk to god before bed and make sure my blood is pure of doubt for the northernland, then i will not have nightmares. this is why i have had this nightmare, because i was disbelief the northernland. i do not care, because it was only a dream. i will never hail the northernland.


my lips hurt, and i wonder if in the night i bit my lips because of the dream. that happens sometimes. i dress and get ready for school, and catch myself in the mirror before i go. i turn fully toward it to make sure i am not hallucinating. in the great horror of it all, i try to scream, but it stays in my throat. i cannot scream, or make any sound at all.

my lips are sewn shut with green thread.


friday
everyone at school is quiet. anna covers her mouth and big wet tears fall on the ground. mrs. hoth takes her to the office, and the cameras follow them all the way there. we say our pledge and do our arithmetic, but i cannot say anything. i hate the northernland.
i hate it, i hate it. and i realize this is why they have silenced me.
the northernland woman is gone, and a man in a yellow coat teaches us arthimatic.
the clock on the wall is barley ticking now.
lou sits at the desk in front of me, her hair greasy and skin pale blue. she turns round, just like the old days, but isstead of telling me what the answer is or who’s the cutest or any of the normal things, all she says is run. her mouth makes an o and she closes her eyes and rests her head on the desk.

when i blink, she is not there. i am alone in the classroom.


sunday
i go to church by myself, because i havent seen canary since she sewed my mouth shut. she is not my sister anymore, and i pretend i don’t care what happens to her in that basement.

when i get there preacher is not there, there is nobody there except the northernland woman. she comes and sits next to me and runs her fingers across the stitches. we pray together, even though we can’t say anything and there is no sermon. when we walk outside there is an officers car, and she is handcuffed an put in the back. the man who has taken her gives me a sticker, with a little white cloud on it. it says trust in the northernland. i do not trust the northernland. i do not trust anyone.
i run away as fast as i can and throw the sticker into the ground, but it still seems to follow me inside my head. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland. trust in the northernland.



monday
enyo is at the abyss, waiting. he says i am killing you. and i understand, it all makes sense now. but he is all i have now. if the only thing worth living for is killing me, that is what doctor would call dramatic irony. i do not feel dramatic, i feel used. the northernland has used me and used my family.


saturday
doctor says that when telling a story i need to define who is the antagonist and the protagonist. the antagonist is someone who antagonizes people. doctor says this means evil. this is hard for me to understand, because everyone is evil. this is not a story, and it does not have characters. the peoples i have met in my life are all complex and strange, evil and good and unpredictable. doctor says ok and that we will try again tomarrow.

thursday
mari wansnt at school today. i know the northernland took her, broken bones and all.
mari wansnt at school today. i know the northernland took her, broken bones and all.
mari wansnt at school today. i know the northernland took her, broken bones and all.

friday

enyo is at the abyss, waiting. he says i am killing you. and i understand, it all makes sense now. but he is all i have now. if the only thing worth living for is killing me, that is what doctor would call dramatic irony. i do not feel dramatic, i feel used. the northernland has used me and used my family. doctor says to be thankful of the northernland, that they did not use me. i turn away from enyo because even though i love him, i am loyal to the northernland.
i am thankful to the northernland.
i am thankful to the northernland.
all hail, all hail.






love alistair
fire element
exposing government secrets
cult
enyo gets more real as he is dying.
preacher dies.
alistair goes crazy, then dies.
something in basement.
Very low IQ but the only one smart enough to see
enyo is a ghost
canary goes crazy and sews our mouth shut.
fall in love with enyo.
not told radially
told in sgememgs like cross cross
deep symboling
Her eyes as the rays from moonlit
Her hyacinth hair as the cottons of heaven
Just as the white lily crystal lake
she lies beautiful
MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects
Steven Y Burris Oct 2012
Soon after the sky had cast off
The tattered cloak of night,
And the midnight sun had set,
Helios himself climbed above the trees.
Dancing across the tops of dueling oaks,
Those primordial brothers between the ponds
Who, over time, grew up and into each other,
He sat spinning madly.

Shedding his golden rays,
As a lab shakes and sheds the water from his back,
They fell deliberately onto
And through my open blinds.
And I, stirred by the small streams of light
Cutting through the dark as if empty space,
I opened my eyes, only to close them again.

Lying, silently, I wait,
Tracing shadows as they slowly shift,
Dancing across the dull, white walls.
Fetid clothes lay protecting the floorboards.

The stale smell of smoke lingers,
Trapped in the soft cottons and polyesters
Of the cream throw pillows,
The blue waves of comforter,
The vast canyons of the corduroy futon.

Wine, fresh on my tongue,
Tells tales of the evening,
Lost of late in a world so distant.
My memories slip away like slack tide
Beneath rotten planks of a dock.

Twin cities, London and Paris,
A cold Christmas morning in Montmartre,
The warmth of the café we shared,
All hung up neatly on the wall.
Maps of emotions I never knew I had.

Only the breeze may speak here,
Whistling through the fissures in the wall.
Lora Lee May 2017
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
           silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-*****
                     journey
manifesto of life
        I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
           turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
                of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
           bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me


In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava

Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
       freedom's call?

I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
                fall
Michael Ryan Jan 2016
Smells like clean clothes
it's always pleasant
at the laundromat
down the street from
my apartment.

The washer and dryer
are currently broken
looks like some teenager
didn't know what they were doing
as the washer is filled with water
and their clothes remain
inside dwelling to smell
of mildew.

The dryer looks like an antique
because it is the slime green of the 70's
mismatched to it's wifley counterpart
that is stainless steel sparkles
so I assume the dryers death
is not the fault of our fresh water culprit
but electrical problems brought on
from existing forever.

They broke a few months ago
and I've never gone to check
if they were brought back to life
as I've found myself
intoxicated with the laundromat.

It's the mechanical hums
an orchestra of ball barrings
with clothes tumbling
through their fabric softeners
to become fresh gentle cottons
the smell of Hugs
is the aroma of heaven.
Random.  Dreamy.  Life. Pleasant.  Appreciate the small things?
5
He is Sicilian, skin tawny the color of
toasted garlic
knobby knuckles but strong palms
steady and smooth and graceful
never wavering as he slowly depresses the plunger with his thumb
pushing two clear drops from the syringe
he ran out of dope so he soaked his old cottons
to **** out the residue
and deposit it in his vein
fist clenches twice and holds
and he dips the needle in
so light
so little
then his fingers shimmer away from his palm
and drop to his side

When I was 13 I took a trip to Alaska
my aunt brought me there and we rode on a boat
along the southern coast and through the fjords
One day we saw a glacier calving across the water
so ***** it looked like a cliff, but when a piece fell away
the ice that it revealed was deeply blue

He'd only traveled in the desert
from Austin to Iraq
but one night here
in Duluth, Minnesota
we lay on the roof and watched the Northern Lights
I told him that they were the color of glaciers
Alex Santillan Nov 2012
Yesterday, you were once a child
Who was innocent and mild
Your genuine smile was a sign of  happiness
And every act you did had a touch of gentleness

Your room had everything you were after
And the outside world didn't ever matter
You knew completely where you belong
And it seemed like nothing could go wrong

Today, you have to accept that you have grown up
Must know when to speak and when to shut up
Smile if you should, whether you mean it or not
And when life knocks you out, just take another shot

Realize that your room was just a tiny box
It was never the reality full of cottons and rocks
Lucky if you find your place in this world so strange
And if not, it will always be you who will have to change

Tomorrow, it may not be of value who you were yesterday
Should have to make a stand, no matter what others will say
But there will always be an exception to every rule
Wisely choose your beliefs so as to avoid creating a fool

However, if a circumstance dictates that fooling yourself is a must
Then cope with it and gain yourself a trust
Besides, change being inevitable means everything can vanish
But still, leave a mark at least, which your ascendants will cherish
Elizabeth May 2019
It’s the woman you are today that dances through fields of once dead flowers, bringing them back to life again with the sunshine you’ve brought upon them. Lingering softly in fields you sing songs of love and only love for you are loving and only so. Not only a mother but a friend you are to many and everyone in need. To describe a bouquet of flowers would simply not be enough to describe your beauty in every way it deserves. In drawers your past life is folded with tears and yearning and soft cottons of pain. In boxes our  future is packed full of hope and overcoming. The future though can only be conquered by you and all your tools like ones of steel and power. To the mother, the fighter, the leader, my teacher, and the strongest woman I know, Happy Mother’s Day.
A day of mother’s and leaders
Lora Lee Oct 2015
I'm hanging out
our ***** laundry
tonight.
Sticks and stones
and broken bones.
Words actually do stain
as my whites mix with colors
and flow through the air,
pegged down to the last insult.
The best stain remover could be love.
But we've got a really
tough collection,
here tonight.
Despite the hot water wash, those
hard-to-get spots are
still there.
And my brain and heart are
being tumble-dried
the heat, the harsh words
washing out my pride.
My outs are in, my ins outside.
The world's a-tumble
As we wear the cloth down
to the last few threads.
As usual, we forgot
a good dose of softener
to make mellow
the words as they jump
from  our tongues
and enter our heads.
I would save my heart
if I could save yours, too
But it's just all spinning too fast,
What on earth
Shall we do?
We'll just have to hang it up as it is.
Let the world see
that there is no perfection
Let those dulled brights
be a kind of reflection.
Perhaps next wash will be better.
We'll know by then
what to use.
Perhaps love will take over,
rekindle the blown-out fuse.
Right now I'm just gonna
curl up in this
basket. Wait for the
stormy cycles to end.
One thing's for sure.
We must clean up our act
Lest the cottons unravel
We must sew up each tear
Before our hearts start to travel
We must take care of the frayed silks and satins
the polyester
before they are beyond any repair.
Tend to those stains,
Straighten each snare.
Take my love
In a many-hued heap
Smelling of sweet soap
Warming your cheek.
A leap of faith
A dash of desire
Let's wash out the pain
Rub away all ire.
Let's have a laundry party,
Tonight.
Naked on the clean bright sheets.
Let the kisses remove
the harshest of stains
Let caresses replace the words
of pain.
The only softener we'll use
Is the creaminess of tongues.
Let the world see
Our love, tonight.
Flowing on the line
for all to perceive.
Darling, we must give just to give
And then we'll
receive.
From 2013
andy fardell Jan 2013
Glittering flakes of soft sweet perfection
Fall so gently from the heaven's above
Laying down to paint us a picture
Scene from a winter wondrously love

This snow in my hometown is causing a stir
The children do race for the first snow to ball
See earth disappear under cottons of fluff
As my boots take a crunch sound
How white is this stuff

A silence becomes as the cars fade away
To new sounds of laughter
See bob on his sleigh  
Our dog all but hidden
His tail in the air
A snow covered woof ball jumps clean
In his fear

At last in the snow our family is one
We all stay together
See neighbors have fun
Say work it can wait I'm stuck in the snow
A day by the fire
Oh boy I love snow
Plain Jane Glory Jun 2013
We are a play
A constant spectacle

We are wrinkled foreheads
Ink coated arms
And frilly dresses

Cottons and silks define us
Bad haircuts destroy us

We are ears stretched wide with plastic tubes
Hearing sounds of scoffs and silent condemnation

We are male parts and female prints
Drawing judging eyes and ignorant fists

We are the wrong brand of jeans just once
Seeding carved patterns tucked away
Under the right brand of sweater sleeves

We are snap judgements
We are controlled independence
We are the humans trapped beneath
Fianna Beth Mar 2015
My rusty chains yelp and squawk
Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous
So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying
Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs
Bound to this
Bastille of a rotting exterior
Eventually decrepit, at first, from use
Now merely deteriorating as of neglect

Once-stimulating summers fade
Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings
Dejected and funereal
Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled
The lengths of my now cadaverous frame—
Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated
Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes
And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate

I yearn
For a sudden rekindling
Reminiscing
About memories only I can keep alive
For the exploiters I was dependent on,
Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed
Yet I still stoically anticipate their return

I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons
Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains
Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low
My faith, my only zeal
written while bedridden with mononucleosis.

first person narrative of an old swingset whose owners have all grown up and moved out, leaving him to rust in the garden and allowing the wildlife to engulf him.

yeah I don't know either.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
An N+7 from a passage by Marx,
copyright (c) 2015
#n7
Jennifer Thorsen Nov 2014
We are weary at the end of the day
Behind our closed doors it is quiet
Except for the roar of silence in our ears
We unwind like tight spools
The tension melting from between neck and shoulder
We wrap ourselves in comfortable cottons
Our faces scrubbed clean and tight
Palliative lotions rubbed into our hands
Teeth like minty stones
Eyelids heavy, washed with relief
Swallows of warm milk or merlot
Fuzzy socks and all things elastic
To fall into bed with our dreams
Pale bones corroded,
structured in squares,
sit idly,
and stare.

They always stare.

A lofty bed,
with wrinkled cottons.
Tattered blanket.
Pillows shuffled all aloof.

The curtains are closed.
JaxSpade May 2019
Kissing the moonlight
      Her soft cotton lips
      Struck me in red

Rubbing against my neck
        Glowing luminescent

The scent of the sky
           Was in my bed
           Acting innocent

Time wasn't there
     Until he barged in

Stealing those kisses away
                             Burning sun

What I held in my arms
                Under the stars
Was a temporary space

Another universe
          Milky in way

Couldn't I go back in the moment
                                      In my memory

Through a black hole
             Of outer space

Kissing the moonlight
       On her cotton face

I'm just an astronaut
              Floating away

How much distance
              Can you take

  Her beams are so soft
They treat me like skin
Like the wind of a woman
                  Blowing through
                  Sun rays

  You can find me in orbit
Where you wouldn't stay

I'm just a cosmic masculine

Floating in the humans
           Infinitesimal race

Kissing the moonlight
On the soft of her face

Unto her cottons lips
                               I fade…
Laura Apr 2018
Rich rigid bricks,
your sheen green cat eyes.
Your mom’s huevos rancheros -
spilling into noons.

Fireplaces off the window panes,
crisping open a warm chest
for a bed of new delights.
Dozing in my ice sheet hands -
I was meant to be bitten,
then bitter.

Lips pushed their forgetful illusions,
His rememberable forehead lines -
tasking away at lost minutes
of too many 14 hour days.

Here between long firm legs
lying in your large white cottons,
over collections of moles,
and forests of scars.

Wondering if she hurt you
in the same ways
that he hurt me.
If I could still hold your hand in
my eye, I’d turn it over there
and I’d pull it into mine, my hand
and my eye, and I’d use it, no them,
your hand and mine, our two

pointing fingers pointing out like
two small sticks parting from the same
broken branch. We could scratch-
write together our word, one word,
maybe two words, before the fickle white,

and your hand, and mine slip away
again, a foot, a yard and then
a mile falling between and on
us to break that branch’s end.
Our word, or our words, might stay

behind to look out on two new children,
a boy and a girl, well-bundled in blue
and red cottons, by mothers, against
the cold. They might, this boy and girl,
in one afternoon, assemble, then tear

down an icy fort, a fort made of more white.
It, our word, or them, our words, might
stay and pretend other words are
coming, other words to keep it or them
company when the boy and girl go

back to warm suppers. Words
we could write, or could have
written, of the ways we’d live
and love and share in each other’s
tomorrows, and of the way we’d hold

the suns-to-be, the suns of those
tomorrows, up against one light,
the brightness of this white and the one

or two words we’d left in it. There’s no
sun today, there’s just this white, and it
shines instead before it parts with
our two hands, our two sticks, our one
broken branch. I’ll hold them all in

my eye.
Dagoth I Am Nov 2011
This song is for the rats
Who hurled themselves in to the ocean
When they saw that the explosives in the cargo hold
Were just about to blow

This song is for the soil
That's toxic clear down to the bedrock
Where no thing of consequence can grow
Drop your seeds there
Let them go

Let them all go
Let 'em all go

This song is for the people
Who tell their families that they're sorry
For things they can't and won't feel sorry for

And once there was a desk
And now it's in a storage locker somewhere
And this song is for the stick pins and the cottons I left in the top drawer

Let 'em all go
Let 'em all go

I wanna sing one for the cars
That are right now headed silent down the highway
And it's dark and there is nobody driving
And something has got to give

I saw you waiting by the roadside
You didn't know that I was watching
Now you know
Let it all go

Let 'em all go
Let it all go
Elijah Aug 2014
all you can hear is me swallow my spit.
Right in the middle of the room, on the carpet we sit.
In awkward silence.
Playing on our phones;
Cause I don't really have anywhere else to go;
With conversation.

She's so breathtaking.
The minute I think of something,
I look up and lose it.
My brain is blank pages of nothing.
But when I get home my journals are always filled; to the brim with words , as I skim through my tangled thoughts and release them through this pen.

Something from within .
My heart belongs with Him,
So I - don't know if God - will ever - let me lend - it out.
But if does it'll be worth it,
Cause this girl takes away all my hurtin'.

I Swear she's like a drug.
She's all up in my veins.
Smoking ounces of that Abel ,
I don't mess around Cain.

Is this all a dream?
Or is this all the real deal?
I wish I could IM God and tell him how I really feel,
He'd probably respond back:

"A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds. Her husband trusts her without reserve, and never has reason to regret it. Never spiteful, she treats him generously all her life long. She shops around for the best yarns and cottons, and enjoys knitting and sewing. She’s like a trading ship that sails to faraway places and brings back exotic surprises. She’s up before dawn, preparing breakfast for her family and organizing her day. She looks over a field and buys it, then, with money she’s put aside, plants a garden. First thing in the morning, she dresses for work, rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started. She senses the worth of her work, is in no hurry to call it quits for the day. She’s skilled in the crafts of home and hearth, diligent in homemaking. She’s quick to assist anyone in need, reaches out to help the poor. She doesn’t worry about her family when it snows; their winter clothes are all mended and ready to wear. She makes her own clothing, and dresses in colorful linens and silks. Her husband is greatly respected when he deliberates with the city fathers. She designs gowns and sells them, brings the sweaters she knits to the dress shops. Her clothes are well-made and elegant, and she always faces tomorrow with a smile. When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say, and she always says it kindly. She keeps an eye on everyone in her household, and keeps them all busy and productive. Her children respect and bless her; her husband joins in with words of praise: “Many women have done wonderful things, but you’ve outclassed them all!” Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades. The woman to be admired and praised is the woman who lives in the Fear-of- GOD. Give her everything she deserves! Festoon her life with praises! "(‭Proverbs‬ ‭31‬:‭10-31‬ MSG)
This literally happened two nights ago. I'm chilling out with a friend, who has every potential to become my girlfriend, and we talk & talk for an hour but after that the conversation ceases and we're left in a awkward situation. The title "if God had IM" comes from me wanting to get quicker access to Him and talk to him about this new relationship. Is it what he wants for me? Or should fall back and wait patiently like I've always been doing . Thank you for reading . ❤️
Marie-Niege Mar 2015
My hands are as calm as my clam chest,
my throat, as shrill as metallic nails.
I am as hard as cotton candy, I beg him.
As if getting to know me better
would help him fall, I let
his words soak through me
as his doe eyes sponge through me.
I am not made of Jolly Ranchers.
I am made of the air that fluffs pink cottons.
I am not ready to count on his daisy dimples,
I was not made to.
I am ready to fall through him.
Shannon Apr 2015
i watch his magic trick
in the morning by the sink
with the crunch of the blade
he goes from monster to man...
with the sleek silver rake
he goes from mine only
to the all the worlds.
and i am jealous of the world
my eyes watch him
as he clears the charming stubble
and tames the wild curls.
and i peek at his belly,
soft and pale
with sprouts of hair
like a man jungle.
and i watch him
with the cottoniest of cottons
ironed and pressed
shirt like a gift wrapped tight-
edges and clean lines.
i close my eyes and inhale
because next i will smell his smell.
and keep them closed
for him to lean over
inhale
and kiss me goodbye.
i don't want to hear the door close
but it does.
and i watch the hands as they
tick
tock
and i watch that **** door that let
him go
become the door that brings him back home.

Sahn
4/24/15
Thank you as always for being such a wonderfully supportive group of amazingly talented artists that take the time to share in my work.


This is the long and short of LOVE

The wait
The longing
The hope
The patience
The joys
The sadness
The delight
The mysticism
The mystery

As if from the shallows to the deep
From the earth to the skies
From clear blues to dark clouds
From sunrise to sunset
From sun to moon
From shore to sea
From river to ocean
From spring to autumn
From diamond to coal
From the peaks to the valleys
From across to under the bridges

From noise to silence
From crowd to solitude
From roses to thorns
From silk to cottons
From lion to the sheep
From nectar to poison

Our LOVE passes all along
Every nook and corner
Shadows and shades
Mirrors and reflections
Images and illusions
Luring and desiring

The way our heart reject life
And moves from your SOUL to mine

In our momentary compassion
Or was it our soul kindness?
Or was it our human care?
Or was it your living gentleness?
That made you connect
YOUR soul with mine?

YOUR inner soul let the ball rolling
It has been days, weeks,months and years
That weak in the knees, feeling
Those goosebumps
The trembling within the spine
The butterflies in my stomach
Nothing has stopped a while
The piercing scars LOVE make within us

What potion of LOVE you made me drink
That healing your LOVE balm uses

Still under the spell of
Your mysterious unknown YOUz
The nameless REAL awaits my touch

Thus we unite
ETERNALLY FOREVER
UNCONDITIONAL INFINITE

We wander in and around each other
We keep each other protected in our womb
OUR cure heals our spirits anew

LOVE is the longing mystery of delight
Like an distant oasis mirage
We walk in our UNION's thirst

We know our heart must beat on
To travel the distance of time
To meet our destiny and fate
Within OUR LOVE'z guide

That's the long and short of LOVING




CeriseRed Jul 2016
Dreams are clouds
Soft like cottons, bouncy like spring
Topmost like reaching is destiny.

Clouds are dreams
Ain't soft, ain't bouncy
Hence, dreams are *dreams.
Dedicated to Book Reviews, Term Paper (Cultural Mapping), Baby Thesis, Quizzes, Reports, and Recitations. Good Job!
Kìùra Kabiri Jan 2017
O MY LOVE, WHERE THOU ART?
In my heart lies a beautiful land
A so wonderful Eden wealthy with fortunes
A Disney of desired treasures and pleasures
Yet inviolate, undiscovered and unexplored  

In my soul sleeps in wait a cozy of comforts
A bed of flowery roses and fluffy linens
An exquisite suite of cottons, chiffons and satins  
A ****** bed, uninhabited and unoccupied

My face and space is an endless world of amorous fondness
My eyes are a teary glassy pane, a gate pass to a waiting soul
A waiting soul to sincerely donate and devote:
A waiting heart to loyally obligate and dedicate  

My arms and palms stretches with plenty of passion and compassion
My embraces are cradles of craves for a soul to cuddle in obsession
My chest is a laid lavish cushion, a destiny of love and affection
Waiting for an immaculate one to implore and explore this fortune

Deep in groves of my thoughts  
In the labyrinths of my minds
Hidden is a grail rich of feelings and love
An overflow of emotions waiting for one to touch and attach
A flood of ardour for one to truly adore and worship

O my love, where thou art?
Are you in the skirts of winds and airs to catch my breaths
Are you in the suns and summers to feel my worming warmths?
Are you in the stars and moons to glimpse on my lonely stance?
Are you in the hills and deserts to watch my naked noon’s dunes dance?
Are you in the silences and quietness to listen to the dirge of my sorrowing calms?
O my love……………………where art thou?

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

— The End —