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vircapio gale Jul 2012
the story went as though
she'd always known the sea
and trusted in its depth
to mellow any ill, caress her
open lovingkind as in a dream.
and dream she would upon the waves,
having settled into floating reverie.
she'd close her eyes and inhale being
there among herself caressing only
ocean, only breath, all sunlit space
to draw her earthly trials gently out.
softened beachside noise would fade
and let alone her ears to hear
the water oneness dipping clear
and deeper in the troughs, for distance
from the stranded holidays,
the beachy noise of seaside frills
and bear her boyancy to rest
in lilting motion, peaceful cresting sleep
atop an intercontinental,
earthsize water bed.
her trust profoundly spanned
the trans-atlantic rift
and any rift to set apart her undulating
ancient ocean mastery. moon
and sun were kneading vastly where
her snores were lost in starfish whispers balancing
the tidal volume set
to always fill and keep afloat,
or otherwise to wake in
sputters and a salty throat.
her body settles into swinging comfort
napping over waves so deep the shore recedes...
... what bright, kind, clarity cascaded in your dreams?
what heart you had, embracing open quiddity,
never sinking nowness breath alert in lucid sleep
and water surface mystic skyward shallow course?
to merfolk gazing up in wonderment
you limply crossed their bouncing sky,
just another flight of fancy in a world of mystery?
did you dream you were a whalesong
sphering out to carry sadness sonorously? did you
school the many impulse-thoughts to clump and flee
the jaws of time? did you bask in light
and find a shining womb of self
to nurture once again and labor out anew?
did gravity make sense to you?
i float sometimes and live that question true.
sleeping far you drifted out and out and in and out of view
and whistles drowned in gathered drama fear
'my grandma! my grandma!'
screamed my cousin at the lifeguard
sweating ******* and leaping over stroke to spash
into your side a breathless shouting mess for you to calm
and ask 'what's wrong?' and angle slowly back to shore
in fits of giggles, bubble laughter at commotion's reach.
they blink in crowds, standing herdlike on the beach.

and now you swim your last,
another summer day.
like any other i awoke
and fed you eggs, so soft
     (at first it wrinkled my nose),
but taste is strange, and slimy works
just fine sometimes,
like in the absence of teeth.
she never liked her dentures,
     (she said she couldn't taste her food)
and gummed her frozen dinner meals with a smile,
like it was the greatest thing in the world.
     (in fact she'd often say, 'that was the best meal i had ever had',
     and with a force that made me happy to suspend my doubt)
and who am i, judging
that which you select? your pills,
your diapers and your vote,
your shows, your nursery rhymes,
your crown manipulation,
your age?
i use abjection well,
as something not unlike a whetstone for denial.
performing daily rituals i abhor
i retrain and edit, revising social eyes:
dilapidated fictions, safer norms
and mores tailored to a loan
with interest from the self.

she didn't call herself a 'nudist,'
though she lived beyond the fence
living **** for decades saying
'i'll never leave, i love my home.'
we played dominoes 'til noon
'another kind of indoor game, one on a side'
her interpretation of my being there
changed soon, like my aversion
for the liquid yoke she buttered with a spoon.
our neighbors loved her and i,
and to meander down our path,
lay their towels and sit
like all there was to do was visit.
lunched,
she hobbles from her plants back to the sink,
and filling the cat dish, stands
century-old arms akimbo
in the doorway, with a sigh to wake the sun.
being of caretaking was never so fun.
holding hands i help her over roots,
around the rocky sections, through
the easy path and level now
she hobbles sure, the cane a decoration
for her pride at being old and young
at heart and quick at stories overtold
in grooves to satisfy the sense of time.
greetings shower us with beaming smiles,
inching to the sandy edge. denuding,
joining everyone, we stand engulfed
in air. modern digambar to don
a vaster cloth of letting be.
skinny dipping grandma, and me.
the water slips around
her fraglile skin, human driftwood
knotted with a smile.
a grand mother slipping through akashic cracks
to undiscover friends their seeing core.
they wonder at the shore
of hoary plight
and wonder on, once we're gone.
Now when Jove had thus brought Hector and the Trojans to the
ships, he left them to their never-ending toil, and turned his keen
eyes away, looking elsewhither towards the horse-breeders of Thrace,
the Mysians, fighters at close quarters, the noble Hippemolgi, who
live on milk, and the Abians, justest of mankind. He no longer
turned so much as a glance towards Troy, for he did not think that any
of the immortals would go and help either Trojans or Danaans.
  But King Neptune had kept no blind look-out; he had been looking
admiringly on the battle from his seat on the topmost crests of wooded
Samothrace, whence he could see all Ida, with the city of Priam and
the ships of the Achaeans. He had come from under the sea and taken
his place here, for he pitied the Achaeans who were being overcome
by the Trojans; and he was furiously angry with Jove.
  Presently he came down from his post on the mountain top, and as
he strode swiftly onwards the high hills and the forest quaked beneath
the tread of his immortal feet. Three strides he took, and with the
fourth he reached his goal—Aegae, where is his glittering golden
palace, imperishable, in the depths of the sea. When he got there,
he yoked his fleet brazen-footed steeds with their manes of gold all
flying in the wind; he clothed himself in raiment of gold, grasped his
gold whip, and took his stand upon his chariot. As he went his way
over the waves the sea-monsters left their lairs, for they knew
their lord, and came gambolling round him from every quarter of the
deep, while the sea in her gladness opened a path before his
chariot. So lightly did the horses fly that the bronze axle of the car
was not even wet beneath it; and thus his bounding steeds took him
to the ships of the Achaeans.
  Now there is a certain huge cavern in the depths of the sea midway
between Tenedos and rocky Imbrus; here Neptune lord of the
earthquake stayed his horses, unyoked them, and set before them
their ambrosial forage. He hobbled their feet with hobbles of gold
which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay
there in that place until their lord should return. This done he
went his way to the host of the Achaeans.
  Now the Trojans followed Hector son of Priam in close array like a
storm-cloud or flame of fire, fighting with might and main and raising
the cry battle; for they deemed that they should take the ships of the
Achaeans and **** all their chiefest heroes then and there.
Meanwhile earth-encircling Neptune lord of the earthquake cheered on
the Argives, for he had come up out of the sea and had assumed the
form and voice of Calchas.
  First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, who were doing their best already,
and said, “Ajaxes, you two can be the saving of the Achaeans if you
will put out all your strength and not let yourselves be daunted. I am
not afraid that the Trojans, who have got over the wall in force, will
be victorious in any other part, for the Achaeans can hold all of them
in check, but I much fear that some evil will befall us here where
furious Hector, who boasts himself the son of great Jove himself, is
leading them on like a pillar of flame. May some god, then, put it
into your hearts to make a firm stand here, and to incite others to do
the like. In this case you will drive him from the ships even though
he be inspired by Jove himself.”
  As he spoke the earth-encircling lord of the earthquake struck
both of them with his sceptre and filled their hearts with daring.
He made their legs light and active, as also their hands and their
feet. Then, as the soaring falcon poises on the wing high above some
sheer rock, and presently swoops down to chase some bird over the
plain, even so did Neptune lord of the earthquake wing his flight into
the air and leave them. Of the two, swift Ajax son of Oileus was the
first to know who it was that had been speaking with them, and said to
Ajax son of Telamon, “Ajax, this is one of the gods that dwell on
Olympus, who in the likeness of the prophet is bidding us fight hard
by our ships. It was not Calchas the seer and diviner of omens; I knew
him at once by his feet and knees as he turned away, for the gods
are soon recognised. Moreover I feel the lust of battle burn more
fiercely within me, while my hands and my feet under me are more eager
for the fray.”
  And Ajax son of Telamon answered, “I too feel my hands grasp my
spear more firmly; my strength is greater, and my feet more nimble;
I long, moreover, to meet furious Hector son of Priam, even in
single combat.”
  Thus did they converse, exulting in the hunger after battle with
which the god had filled them. Meanwhile the earth-encircler roused
the Achaeans, who were resting in the rear by the ships overcome at
once by hard fighting and by grief at seeing that the Trojans had
got over the wall in force. Tears began falling from their eyes as
they beheld them, for they made sure that they should not escape
destruction; but the lord of the earthquake passed lightly about among
them and urged their battalions to the front.
  First he went up to Teucer and Leitus, the hero Peneleos, and
Thoas and Deipyrus; Meriones also and Antilochus, valiant warriors;
all did he exhort. “Shame on you young Argives,” he cried, “it was
on your prowess I relied for the saving of our ships; if you fight not
with might and main, this very day will see us overcome by the
Trojans. Of a truth my eyes behold a great and terrible portent
which I had never thought to see—the Trojans at our ships—they,
who were heretofore like panic-stricken hinds, the prey of jackals and
wolves in a forest, with no strength but in flight for they cannot
defend themselves. Hitherto the Trojans dared not for one moment
face the attack of the Achaeans, but now they have sallied far from
their city and are fighting at our very ships through the cowardice of
our leader and the disaffection of the people themselves, who in their
discontent care not to fight in defence of the ships but are being
slaughtered near them. True, King Agamemnon son of Atreus is the cause
of our disaster by having insulted the son of Peleus, still this is no
reason why we should leave off fighting. Let us be quick to heal,
for the hearts of the brave heal quickly. You do ill to be thus
remiss, you, who are the finest soldiers in our whole army. I blame no
man for keeping out of battle if he is a weakling, but I am
indignant with such men as you are. My good friends, matters will soon
become even worse through this slackness; think, each one of you, of
his own honour and credit, for the hazard of the fight is extreme.
Great Hector is now fighting at our ships; he has broken through the
gates and the strong bolt that held them.”
  Thus did the earth-encircler address the Achaeans and urge them
on. Thereon round the two Ajaxes there gathered strong bands of men,
of whom not even Mars nor Minerva, marshaller of hosts could make
light if they went among them, for they were the picked men of all
those who were now awaiting the onset of Hector and the Trojans.
They made a living fence, spear to spear, shield to shield, buckler to
buckler, helmet to helmet, and man to man. The horse-hair crests on
their gleaming helmets touched one another as they nodded forward,
so closely seffied were they; the spears they brandished in their
strong hands were interlaced, and their hearts were set on battle.
  The Trojans advanced in a dense body, with Hector at their head
pressing right on as a rock that comes thundering down the side of
some mountain from whose brow the winter torrents have torn it; the
foundations of the dull thing have been loosened by floods of rain,
and as it bounds headlong on its way it sets the whole forest in an
uproar; it swerves neither to right nor left till it reaches level
ground, but then for all its fury it can go no further—even so easily
did Hector for a while seem as though he would career through the
tents and ships of the Achaeans till he had reached the sea in his
murderous course; but the closely serried battalions stayed him when
he reached them, for the sons of the Achaeans ****** at him with
swords and spears pointed at both ends, and drove him from them so
that he staggered and gave ground; thereon he shouted to the
Trojans, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close
combat, stand firm: the Achaeans have set themselves as a wall against
me, but they will not check me for long; they will give ground
before me if the mightiest of the gods, the thundering spouse of Juno,
has indeed inspired my onset.”
  With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Deiphobus
son of Priam went about among them intent on deeds of daring with
his round shield before him, under cover of which he strode quickly
forward. Meriones took aim at him with a spear, nor did he fail to hit
the broad orb of ox-hide; but he was far from piercing it for the
spear broke in two pieces long ere he could do so; moreover
Deiphobus had seen it coming and had held his shield well away from
him. Meriones drew back under cover of his comrades, angry alike at
having failed to vanquish Deiphobus, and having broken his spear. He
turned therefore towards the ships and tents to fetch a spear which he
had left behind in his tent.
  The others continued fighting, and the cry of battle rose up into
the heavens. Teucer son of Telamon was the first to **** his man, to
wit, the warrior Imbrius son of Mentor rich in horses. Until the
Achaeans came he had lived in Pedaeum, and had married Medesicaste a
******* daughter of Priam; but on the arrival of the Danaan fleet he
had gone back to Ilius, and was a great man among the Trojans,
dwelling near Priam himself, who gave him like honour with his own
sons. The son of Telamon now struck him under the ear with a spear
which he then drew back again, and Imbrius fell headlong as an
ash-tree when it is felled on the crest of some high mountain
beacon, and its delicate green foliage comes toppling down to the
ground. Thus did he fall with his bronze-dight armour ringing
harshly round him, and Teucer sprang forward with intent to strip
him of his armour; but as he was doing so, Hector took aim at him with
a spear. Teucer saw the spear coming and swerved aside, whereon it hit
Amphimachus, son of Cteatus son of Actor, in the chest as he was
coming into battle, and his armour rang rattling round him as he
fell heavily to the ground. Hector sprang forward to take
Amphimachus’s helmet from off his temples, and in a moment Ajax
threw a spear at him, but did not wound him, for he was encased all
over in his terrible armour; nevertheless the spear struck the boss of
his shield with such force as to drive him back from the two
corpses, which the Achaeans then drew off. Stichius and Menestheus,
captains of the Athenians, bore away Amphimachus to the host of the
Achaeans, while the two brave and impetuous Ajaxes did the like by
Imbrius. As two lions ****** a goat from the hounds that have it in
their fangs, and bear it through thick brushwood high above the ground
in their jaws, thus did the Ajaxes bear aloft the body of Imbrius, and
strip it of its armour. Then the son of Oileus severed the head from
the neck in revenge for the death of Amphimachus, and sent it whirling
over the crowd as though it had been a ball, till fell in the dust
at Hector’s feet.
  Neptune was exceedingly angry that his grandson Amphimachus should
have fallen; he therefore went to the tents and ships of the
Achaeans to urge the Danaans still further, and to devise evil for the
Trojans. Idomeneus met him, as he was taking leave of a comrade, who
had just come to him from the fight, wounded in the knee. His
fellow-soldiers bore him off the field, and Idomeneus having given
orders to the physicians went on to his tent, for he was still
thirsting for battle. Neptune spoke in the likeness and with the voice
of Thoas son of Andraemon who ruled the Aetolians of all Pleuron and
high Calydon, and was honoured among his people as though he were a
god. “Idomeneus,” said he, “lawgiver to the Cretans, what has now
become of the threats with which the sons of the Achaeans used to
threaten the Trojans?”
  And Idomeneus chief among the Cretans answered, “Thoas, no one, so
far as I know, is in fault, for we can all fight. None are held back
neither by fear nor slackness, but it seems to be the of almighty Jove
that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here far from Argos: you,
Thoas, have been always staunch, and you keep others in heart if you
see any fail in duty; be not then remiss now, but exhort all to do
their utmost.”
  To this Neptune lord of the earthquake made answer, “Idomeneus,
may he never return from Troy, but remain here for dogs to batten
upon, who is this day wilfully slack in fighting. Get your armour
and go, we must make all haste together if we may be of any use,
though we are only two. Even cowards gain courage from
companionship, and we two can hold our own with the bravest.”
  Therewith the god went back into the thick of the fight, and
Idomeneus when he had reached his tent donned his armour, grasped
his two spears, and sallied forth. As the lightning which the son of
Saturn brandishes from bright Olympus when he would show a sign to
mortals, and its gleam flashes far and wide—even so did his armour
gleam about him as he ran. Meriones his sturdy squire met him while he
was still near his tent (for he was going to fetch his spear) and
Idomeneus said
  “Meriones, fleet son of Molus, best of comrades, why have you left
the field? Are you wounded, and is the point of the weapon hurting
you? or have you been sent to fetch me? I want no fetching; I had
far rather fight than stay in my tent.”
  “Idomeneus,” answered Meriones, “I come for a spear, if I can find
one in my tent; I have broken the one I had, in throwing it at the
shield of Deiphobus.”
  And Idomeneus captain of the Cretans answered, “You will find one
spear, or twenty if you so please, standing up against the end wall of
my tent. I have taken them from Trojans whom I have killed, for I am
not one to keep my enemy at arm’s length; therefore I have spears,
bossed shields, helmets, and burnished corslets.”
  Then Meriones said, “I too in my tent and at my ship have spoils
taken from the Trojans, but they are not at hand. I have been at all
times valorous, and wherever there has been hard fighting have held my
own among the foremost. There may be those among the Achaeans who do
not know how I fight, but you know it well enough yourself.”
  Idomeneus answered, “I know you for a brave man: you need not tell
me. If the best men at the ships were being chosen to go on an ambush-
and there is nothing like this for showing what a man is made of; it
comes out then who is cowardly and who brave; the coward will change
colour at every touch and turn; he is full of fears, and keeps
shifting his weight first on one knee and then on the other; his heart
beats fast as he thinks of death, and one can hear the chattering of
his teeth; whereas the brave man will not change colour nor be on
finding himself in ambush, but is all the time longing to go into
action—if the best men were being chosen for such a service, no one
could make light of your courage nor feats of arms. If you were struck
by a dart or smitten in close combat, it would not be from behind,
in your neck nor back, but the weapon would hit you in the chest or
belly as you were pressing forward to a place in the front ranks.
But let us no longer stay here talking like children, lest we be ill
spoken of; go, fetch your spear from the tent at once.”
  On this Meriones, peer of Mars, went to the tent and got himself a
spear of bronze. He then followed after Idomeneus, big with great
deeds of valour. As when baneful Mars sallies forth to battle, and his
son Panic so strong and dauntless goes with him, to strike terror even
into the heart of a hero—the pair have gone from Thrace to arm
themselves among the Ephyri or the brave Phlegyans, but they will
not listen to both the contending hosts, and will give victory to
one side or to the other—even so did Meriones and Idomeneus, captains
of m
Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****,
but I’m alive,


which many can’t say after Rwanda.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

I wrote this after watching Hotel Rwanda one night. The title comes from the idea that a motel is a lesser version of a hotel, and my problems are much lesser than the people of Rwandas are, along with many others who experience such brutal violence. Let me know what you think, and if the title works. Thanks!
Syddy Raye Apr 2014
Candy
Lack of interest
Hope
Disappointment

Candy with a movie
Popcorn too
Candy so sweet and groovy
Popcorn lovely too

Lack of interest clouds my judgement
Lack of interest hobbles along
Lack of interest leaves me lonely
Lack of interest hates my being

Hope
Hope of finding freedom
Hope that left me restelss
Hope that made me anxious

Disappointment rings
Disappointment kills hope
Disappointemnt sacrafices candy
Disappointment confides in lack of interest
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
marlene dunham Jul 2010
He carries her purse on his arm
without awkwardness;
His comfort shows he must have been caretaker,
for some time.
Yet awkward she does feel.

He carries her purse on his arm
as if it belonged there.
Just another parcel to be handled
with care; yet not a care
to what this stranger thought.

This old woman hobbles
ambling behind;
a footfall - thrusts her forward,
one more step.
Doesn’t he understand she wants to go forward -
no more? One step closer
to the grave,
she can sense.

The cane catching
and holding her steady;
The pain, catching
and holding her firm.
She follows his lead; always hitting the mark
with her blue veined hand
wrapped around that staff
in her grasp.

Her gait, unsteady,
wobbly at best
As he carries her purse on his arm,
She follows his lead
one step at a time

A crooked cane
her only assist for the
ambulatory impairment she bears;
as he carries her purse
on his arm.

© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Wade Redfearn Sep 2010
He loved it when she slid up
to him, as sweet as a sprinkle doughnut -
but now, something has befallen her,
she's been burned or frozen, tastes more like
cinnamon raisin; but by virtue of his
firelit face and tall tales,
he still gets invited out.
_________

He creaks upstairs an hour late, we
are already tangled up on the
back porch, smoking, and the
liquor has made everything
an economy of scale.

He is a ray of sunshine. Tells us
all the old groaners. The big fish.
Ultimately says, "Happy birthday.
Never let your guard down."
and hobbles off, with barb-wire chafing
his heel, and the rheumatic suspicion
that "rest" and "wellness" are
the fables taught to us by
bogeymen, trying to convince us
there are no bogeymen.

I am a tender Twenty tonight.
I want to twirl my fists in Muhammad Ali speedbag-spirals,
saying, "I am the champion. Never undefended."
But I am too drunk, and maybe
too humiliated.

God! He floats like painkillers. He stings like loss.

There he is, the tall order, the iron giant:
a two-story brainfreeze milkshake.

I shudder, a pipsqueak of a prizefighter.
The bucktoothed squirt at the icecream booth,
too short to notice that there are only three flavours.
And all of them involve pistachios! Gasp!
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
Pretty painted face
She hobbles on wooden shoes
Beautiful maiden
Sharon Stewart Nov 2011
I think Grandpa Stewart developed a stutter
from years of being interrupted.
I've never heard him get out a whole sentence
on his own, without Grandma cutting him off
before tonight. He hobbles over to the kitchen
where I'm doing dishes after dinner.
Expectantly, I look up into the ***** windowpanes
of his old, gray eyes,
his hands are shaking and lips quivering.
When he talks, it's like a secret, and he
tells me, struggling over sequence and syllables,
stories of being a volunteer firefighter. Days
he was the strongest man anyone knew.
He stopped a flaming tractor trailer, once, from
running away all ablaze when its brakeline blew up.
Set his jaw, leaned into the smoke, another time,
and pushed onward in steady strides, putting out
a fire in a nickel and dime store, even when
the hose pressure was pushing his line of
sweaty men backward into the street.

Where the hell is that fighting man? I look
at the hunched, wrinkled one before me and remember
the panic that crippled him when
his second son killed himself 12 years ago.
Knelt down as if in prayer, begging
for forgiveness maybe, put a shotgun under his chin,
and blew his brains out, a different type of fire,
with carbon and sulfur exploding just as deadly.
They said the bullet came out his eye socket.
I don't know how they could tell.
It was a stranger in the casket they pieced together
from chunks of skull found across the basement floor.
Haunted by fires, Grandpa doesn't sleep now,
answers the phone on the first ring, paralyzed
in perpetual anxiety, yelling,
                                                             "Y-Y-YES?! He-Hello?!"
His stutters are a endless seziure convulsing
on his tongue. He's slower, he's somewhere else, he 's
interrupted and doesn't try. He's medicated
and sedated and
smothered into this empty shell of
a man, sleeping, existing on a living room recliner,
****** with colorless eyes,
desensitized to fear and family, broken
in the wake of fire's senseless destruction;
all the charred ashes left in its place.
Angelica Renee Aug 2013
Before last night, I'd only seen the forbidden-fruit curves and
ripples
rendering my skin unbeautiful.
But in the fluorescent indifference of a drugstore
I caught sight of my legs through eyes not my own,
new tapers and bulges swathed in black spandex
even too flimsy for the $15 price tag,
and wondered why words like "small" and "gap"
were heaven to my ears,
while "quadriceps" and "endurance"
have their own quaint ring,
a lovely taste on the tip of a tongue
which has spent too much time
wallowing in self-hatred.

Strength isn't a virtue in women,
we who learn from birth to take up
as little space as possible.
Our shapes always need shaping,
guiding,
sometimes our own voices telling ourselves
we deserve the pain of fatigue
after one mile too long spent running
up the avenue,
forcing ourselves to faint
for a glimpse of thinner thighs,
we deserve to be dehumanized
if we don't inch our way into
the body laid out for us by
Mother Society.

Where is the place for the girl who
hobbles home, skin bruised purple
but flushed with the accomplishment of stopping
every single shot in practice?
Or for the boy whose gentle hands provide
the perfect perch for a butterfly to land upon?

My strength is not an imperfection.
There is beauty in it, and discipline.
These legs can take me for miles if I
take off the iron vest that keeps me
anchored to a Hollywood version
of myself.

Without it, I can fly.
Verisi Militude Oct 2010
October roads are littered with nostalgia;

auburn and crimson embers sink

like ash to the ground,

perpetually estranged from the spirited conflagration

as an old man is estranged from his wife of fifty years

after knowing her when her eyes bore the lucidity of an autumn sky,

after knowing her when her fair hair was full and gleaming,

after knowing her when she was able to distinguish the fact

that he was the man she loved,

before her mind became opaque and disjointed,

before her skin became as brittle as a desiccated maple leaf,

before she lost the steadiness to hold a sheaf of papers

without causing them to tremble

as a blazing autumn oak tree trembles lugubriously in the wind.



As he crunches down the

worn, flaming path,

his arthritic fingers clumped in a gnarled fist

deep within the recesses of his jacket pockets,

the old man smiles dejectedly as a young couple passes by,

their spry Labrador trotting happily by their side.

How it was, he muses, scuffing a stone along with his shoe,

to hold her hand and walk down here this time every fall.



A few minutes later he happens across a spindly sapling,

its arms thin as matchsticks,

its leaves defiantly clinging to its last remains of green

despite knowing that ruthless Nature will inevitably drain it all away.

The sight of this display of childish insubordination

reminds him of his son,

once a boy as small as that little tree

with convictions as grand as a red oak.

The man turns his face and shuffles along;

he has neither seen

nor heard

from his son for several years now,

not since her death drove him away to a place

where autumn does not exist;

to dwell upon it is to be struck

with great sorrow and longing,

like strained branches keening under intense wind.



Turning around,

the old man hunches his shoulders

in a futile effort to keep the chill from freezing his ears.

He grimaces; his hip never was the same,

not since the accident.

She patched me up, though, he recalls longingly,

she patched me up real good.

Didn’t even need a doctor. He chuckles.

Didn’t even need a doctor.

I bet she could’ve stitched me up better

with a needle and that blue thread of hers

than that uppity man with his nose in the air

like he was trying to find the sun.

And he didn’t do a good job, neither.

But I know she could’ve.

She could do just about anything.



A troupe of jack-o-lanterns grin

with the unrefined skill of young children on his neighbor’s porch.

Massaging his leg as he hobbles by,

he sighs and coughs. He looked so **** cute that year—

musta been around six or seven—in that cowboy costume.

She did a real good job, putting that whole outfit together.

Even made a holster and everything.

Felt a little bad for the kid

when she wouldn’t let him put a fake gun in it, though.

The old man cranes his neck to face the twilit sky.

You don’t mind if I let him have it, anyway,

do you, darling?

I know you always said I babied the kid,

said I’d turn him into a cube of sugar,

but he came out to be a good grown man, didn’t—



He stops mid-sentence,

unable to utter that very last word.

Standing at the lip of his driveway,

he pulls his hands out of his pockets

and pries his stiff, tangled fingers apart.

Night has fallen.

So, it seems, has his happiness.
Christine Jun 2010
Girl waits anxiously,
Foot bouncing
Hands tapping
Mind in overdrive.

The woman in charge
Has her hair shaved on both sides
And tattoos covering her torso.
She takes two smoke breaks
And decides she might as well get paid.

Science? On your body? Whatever. Get in.

The girl holds out her foot
Pink and white and black
Ready and willing
To be punctured
Like the god's coloring book.
She talks to drown out the nerves.

Her friend follows
Awkwardly? Quietly?
Holds out fingers
To be used in case of emergency.
The first gets a vise grip on them
She starts singing pop-culture
From decades past to distract.
It just seems out-of-place.

The woman pays no attention.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Refills her ink
As an artist must have supplies.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
She loves these needles
That penetrate and alter.
Allow the body to be a canvas
Both practical and beautiful.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The girl's hand sweats
Death grips do that, I hear.
She has to wipe it off more than once.
Her friend is being little help.
She cringes!
Needle got close to bone
To nerves.
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

She finishes
Puts away her needles
And her ink
Cleans her canvas
Though this was not her favorite artwork.
She sends them out.

She hobbles
Foot newly changed.
Human symbols now visible,
She is no longer just earth.
Her friend follows.

She now has the mark of humanity
Of science
Of society
Forever on her skin.
She now belongs to the world.
jeffrey robin Oct 2015
.



TERRORIST

/--\

_


the old lady hobbles with her cane

Down the street

/:/

The old country

Hobbles down the years

With a nuclear bomb

TERROR



The little girl

Looking for love

Eyes  her ******

In the mirror

//

She is about ready to make a poor decision

)(

!(

If we pretend we don't see the poverty

We can hide our intensions

For a little while

//

TERRORIZED

::

We try too hard to pretend

That we are not

::

The blood

Dripping across our face

TERRORIST

seems the only thing to be
Steven Fortune Apr 2014
No way for her to ascertain
the ashen carpets of erasure
randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish
hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares
with a body already incommodiously perched
upon legs submissive to the here and now's
drunken mercury
Alone she has been left to sweep up
the gravity that hobbles optimism
in the hops of faith around the ambivalence
of horizontal authenticity
Left alone to weep on twitching roots
and theorize a rally bloom in spite
of severance in tune with sparks of closure
The shadow of her sunken chin emits
embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays
Queen of checkerboard embodiment
her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance
in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
04 28 14
P Pax Sep 2012
Remember this? Remember this.
When I told you of Parameters.
Built around to self protect?
Well, those walls are not fixed,
The world is wont to move, to change
And how they change!

Sometimes a man shows you his heart's part.
You take it and see; you give your same's key.
Then sometimes you have no choice,
the heart alone breaks down your walls
as the heart wants to do, to break.
And how it does break.

The heart's a glass dagger, and in its struggle shatters.
But even broken glass still cuts and bores,
after a cup, built of diamond shrapnel shivs, falls
and finds a home in a little boy's tender foot.
But even after the offender has been removed,
whenever he steps down, he feels it still there.

And he's afraid to walk ever again.
And the floor is like his personal enemy.
And any glass is like a bomb mocking him.
And he wears double socks when he's at home.
And he sits in the tub and he picks and rubs.
And he lies in bed all morning wondering,

"And when will my heart stop aching?"
And he hobbles along in the world.
And he puts on a strong face.
And he wants to move forward without the pain.
And he wants so much not to fear anymore.
And he wants so much just to love at all.
Onoma Mar 2015
The space between chaff and
grain...misshapen yield vying
for the ecliptic plane.
As eye to eye...to be plucked
from what is gathered.
Moments timeout their
defining...what beauty hobbles
its poetry?
Something in league with or
without...passes off a kinship
nearer and dearer than bone
in plain conglomeration, as
strung to skeleton.
A seeing through of boundary...
as always open to season,
change by its allowance changes.
Our parenthetical infinite is
blessed/cursed with peripheral
vision...anonymously...
glory blurrily grows.
Begs from form what itself begs
form...we are thus force-fed
finitude, till what infinitude comes
of our eyes.
John Niederbuhl May 2017
Dusk is an old man with a gray cape,
Who walks with a limp and a cane.
Turning on street lights and lights in the windows
Sending the children home from their play.

When they're all safe, he smiles to himself
And hums a soft, little song
That sounds a little like little bugs buzzing
As he hobbles along.

He pauses a while in the trees near the pond,
Waves his cane and stirs up the frogs;
Then he moves on through the outskirts of town,
Along silent gardens and past barking dogs.  

He fixes his gaze upon distant hills,
That fade in a warm, violet mist;
He shakes out his cape--the pine trees turn black,
Dew starts at a flick of his wrist.

He stops by the park to smoke a cigar
That glows as it gets almost dark;
When it goes out, he leaps to the sky
And disappears like a spark.
For my daughter, years ago
Heather Moon May 2014
Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.
Joe Wilson Apr 2014
Torture wreaked havoc with his mind’s sanity
The anguish just chilled me to the core
As the beatings continue to reduce him
He is scared he’ll not take too much more.

Again the water washed over and woke him
The bucket clanging as they threw it back down
Once again he was taken to the table
‘Waterboarding‘ I thought with a frown.

He was laid on his back and then tied down
They put towels over his mouth and his nose
They poured and they poured water on him
Once again in his chest panic rose.

A reporter who’d been caught in the crossfire
There was no information he could tell
No amount of hard beatings and torture
Could make him give secrets he’d not held.

Beaten and bloodied he is taken
Back as before to his cell
He’s told them all that he ever could tell them
But he still can’t escape from this hell.

He languishes in his cell I am certain
He cries out for mercy from each pore
I know that they still give him more beatings
I see him as he hobbles past my cell door.



©JRW2014
Dangerous work requires brave people who we sometimes take for granted.
Photography's funny & it's focal when your slurpy runs run foreign then local with a sister-******* yokel, as it's fixed by punchline what a ***** joke'll make of a wiener-shaped sausage in the course of a family-friendly poke-all; into a ******-shooting heroine or a coked-up coke doll. Take back our toothpicks 1 rotten tooth at a time.
de Negre Sep 2018
its okay,
bad days pass with the wind,    

i seem to be
caught in many unlucky drafts.    

this air hobbles southeast;
God bless the storms.    

i am told:
(often) "use your sails for the wind."    

foolish are they-
i already know my repost:    

"have you ever
held these ropes?"

and i ride
the winds.
for winds and zephyrs, may they bless you forever
i walk alone through the deserted sleeping city
the fog carries me away from and toward nothing
streetlights flicker in the distance
wounded memories coursing through my veins
naked heart bleeding in the moonlight

and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery

lonely shadow disappears in darkness
vacant surreal the world around me dreams
like a caged madman my heart pounds...screaming
stray dog hobbles past doesn't even see me
silent city speaks volumes...empty sorrow
winos sleeping every doorway... final nightmare
neon lights humming tired rhythm to my footsteps

and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery

the dawn yawns slowly hovering between worlds
bloodshot sun reveals hidden vagrants
last nights howling oblivion is shattered
slowly replaced by morality of morning
skyscrapers rub their weary eyes
i retreat to darkness as daylight burns the shadows
the final stars melt slowly into hearsay

and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery...
Her home of a tree,
She jostles down,
As if height were but a myth.

She hobbles up,
And greets my hand,
With kisses of a little black nose.

She rustles up to me,
Her soft fur comforting me,
As all of nature sways.

"I haven't seen you in ages" I say,
Feeling as though too many years,
Years have passed since I have seen her.

As I think about my time as a child,
Naive and dependent,
I think about my adulthood.

She makes no noise,
But the ruffles of her feet—
My smile hers as I brush her.

After all this time,
I feel differently about this place,
This changed, familiar place.

She is the sun of Nostalgia's light,
A memory of the past.
I reminisce about the fallen trees,
And wonder how long she has waited.
"I'm sorry I neglected you so long" I say to her,
"I simply had to grow up".

Her whiskers warmly tickled me,
Her thoughtless happiness saying,
"I forgive you" in some way.

I think about the stretches of time,
In which all has changed,
Yet I stand in the back of the mystifying yard,
A slice of altered past, long swept by the seas of time,
Where she affectionately acknowledges me.



As her soft, large, round, greyish, white-brown face,
Pushes against my ankles as I squat,
I forget the strain of my body's weight.

She lifts my spirit into the air,
Leaving behind my grounded form,
As we gaze at each other from eye to eye to eye to eye.

"Come back any time", she says,
"And I'll be here.
I'll never be lost to time".


I open my eyes, sitting amongst the grass of a lonely yard.
The encroaching forest chirps with lulled noises, as I look at my hand, extended for naught but the short stalks of green that rise from the ground.
I feel my adult self, my life, pouring through my head.
I know, from within the realm of my heart, I  know that I can always return.
I can always return and feel her again.

Nostalgia.


© 2019 t.v. Amaryllis
Lorenzo Soldera Apr 2014
The hectic hubbub of the New York
subway – overwhelming,
to say the least.
Crack.
Screams pierce any sense of peace remaining.
Gunfire? Is this a riot?
The businessman to my left
Is too engulfed in the sweetness
of his blackberry to even hazard a glance.
As the commotion settles, people
return to their normal pace.
A hobo with a Goofy tee hobbles around,
claiming he has AIDS in four
different languages.
Drunk, he comes up to me,
Asking for a smooch.
I give him a quarter.
The smudges on his face
Wrinkle into a frown.
Almost falling, as if in a swoon,
He looks at me.
Dead in the eyes.
“*******,” he says…


Tackle.
4 April 2012.

high school warm up exercise. twenty students included the same eight words in their poems.

© 2012 by Lorenzo Soldera. All rights reserved.
Sophia Jan 2018
Late at night near a rural shelter, a wizened figure hobbles closer.
With chapped lips he drags on a bone pipe,
the warm smoke hangs in the air.
I stand still, breathe it in politely until my throat itches.

I'm told a tale of some faraway town
and a girl, his daughter, who left one night without explanation.

As an owl hoots somewhere behind us,
He wipes away a tear. It leaves a clean track through the layers of soot and grime.

A dog barks in the distance and the hedge full of cicadas almost drowns out his whispered, dreary tale.
I cough and move to reach for my wallet. He doesn't see.
He has started to shuffle away,
murmuring to himself about how she never made it back home.
Poetic T Feb 2016
**** what was said, its what was known was a whole other story:

"Run their coming how much you got,

"I got fifteen clots left,
"How the fa-jesus is that gonna stop them,

"Improvising is the necessity of the moment,
"Now grab that gas bottle and traffic cone, hurry,

"You are one crazy ******* you know that,

He smiles and watch's as his friend plays tinkerer, he
Was called the tinker bell of improvising. Less the *******
Wings and smiles. I loved watching his thoughts as they
Always had a party trick sense of humor that played with
Those that were against us and our family. We had been
On the streets for at least for at least fifteen years running
Against those that were in this seeded state of imprisonment


"That's so messed up dude,

He laughs out loud at the thought of those playing the field.

"The streets are our weapon their sheep on our land,

Running to a secluded place darkness cleanses their view
From others prying eyes. You think there stupid enough
To fall for this ****? their is always one dopy *******.

"Here they come,

They see the funtarded plan that they left for those playing
Cat in a world of mice, but mice are smarter than others
Give credit for, "******* cat, "SSsssshhhhh,

The thugs speak to each other faces deserted in black.

"What the hell is this?
What is it? anything of importance?
"It looks like a Knock, Knock joke,
"Read it then you imbecile

"Knock, Knock,

"Who's there?

"Count to three,
1
2
.
.
.
.
.
"Aggghhhh,­

Ambush is shouted around, all but two aren't caught
In what happened two moments before.

Two moments earlier
3??

"Gas is silent but deadly,
The one that smelt it dealt it?

What the **** is that meant to mean?

As an incendiary round is fired, figures they
Momentarily see,
With gleeful smiles and a middle index finger
****** in the air by both, and unheard words spoke
"**** all yaaaa,
All are engulfed in flame, screams are heard from the
Distance running in futile acts.

"Drop and roll,

These words of panic go unheard as if swatted
They each fall like wicks. They smoulder and then
Unused ammunition upon themselves like
Fire crackers go off. like jumping beans
Their frames jump up as appendages release
from their now flaming form.

"Run for cove.........,
"O ****, he just got to in the head,
"I don't get paid enough for this Fu.....,


One slug only used impressive is a thought,
His little playful tricks never cease to amaze,
Cadavers smouldering linger as they both
Look over amazed it worked.

"Now that's what I'm talking about,

As he walks over and does a midsection ******
"BANG,
As the air is clouded with profanities
"MOTHER F#CKER,
"JESUS ***#ING CHRIST,
"**** THE FU#KING BED,

"Hahahahaha,

"What's so funny,

"Its the Karma of the situation,
"He dealt it, you smelt it in the ****,

"That's so not funny my dairy-air kills,

"Dude you got a brown stain hahaha.....,
"**** the bed or your pants,

They walk away, well one walks the other hobbles.
I hate this place so much, god dam generation prison.
"What did we ever do?
"We were born dude,
They arrive at camp to eyes happy to see both
Alive and slightly well, curious looks
Gather at his reddish brown patch,
"He smelt it,
As giggles surround and he punches him in the arm.

"I'm never going to live this down am I dude,
"No,
"This is worthy of years of puns haha...,

They see their mother, a tattoo of shameful pride
Adorning her neck, so long ago given for
A crime of hunger to feed her first born.
But their was no cautionary words, but deployed
Into this state now walls elevated a half mile high.
Did the world still exist no one knew no one
Had been dropped in nine or ten years.
This place was a whole state enclosed, the
Worst and those of minimal crimes linger in
This place to survive is the only thing and not
Lose your humanity in the process.

"Hi my little ones,
"I see the journey was not with out incidence,

"It was a pain in the **** mum,
"Well his **** not mine,

"Mum tell him to stop it,

"Young man your brother is not the **** of all jokes,
"Ok maybe for the next few years give or take,

They walk off as the gates enclosing there camp
Though rusted keep outsider not wanted
Away from the peace now claimed in the enclave.
t
Andrew Rueter Apr 2019
You entered my life
When I was centered in strife
So you mentored me right
And invented the light

You were okay with my flaws
You were okay with my sappiness
You introduced me to God
You introduced me to happiness

You’re the shepherd
I’m the *****
Who’s ways were tempered
In the holy sector

You gave me a prize
By making things clearer
So I can look in my eyes
When I look in the mirror

You have given a gift
Of a life lift
Paradigm shift
Removing spit
Where I sit

Your inner peace
And inner beauty
Are within reach
And flow through me

So this foal hobbles
Behind its role model
Drinking the whole bottle
To match your bold throttle
Snakano Feb 2013
A pink flower sways in the breeze on a calm, cool night.
It stretches out its smooth petals, inviting others to join her.
Soon, a young bee hobbles along and freely accompanies the flower.
She plays with its leaves, caresses its petals and hovers above the flower's stigma.
A sudden gust of warm breath pushes the bee into the flower and is wrapped up soft arms.
The young bee quickly gathers some golden powder, tickling the flower.
Then off the bee flies, waving back and thanking the pink flower,
Which still sways in the breeze of the calm, cool night.
Natalie Wood May 2014
I feel your stones sink in me
they rest like broken bones trying to find there homes
nesting in a soul that’s plucked out like a bird,
shot down from the sky and is all you do ask “why?”
Your truth falls away, a glimmer of false hope that sits in the distance
and then it’s gone but all you left was resistance and you still take a stance.
No one can hear you but those that are dear to you and even they turn away their ear.
We are homeless here. We are hopeless here.
You still chase after it even when it’s gone and so on and on and on it goes
the bird shot down hobbles onto it’s toes and still tries to take flight
but not even with the will of its might
can it fly off and disappear into the cold night of our forgetfulness.
SøułSurvivør May 2017
begging she
hobbles
wobbly on
bent legs her
garments
unraveled
scarlet
letter
meticulously
embroidered on
sagging
bossom
golden heart worn
upon the wrist
which
wields
the
collapsible
white
cane.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/12/2017
Kyle Mooneyham Mar 2015
All throughout the darkened day
A little boy limps with a scar
From a fire that burned his body gray
As kids started to gossip and bray

While Billy hobbles to class that was afar
A **** came and shoved him to the ground
Billy was stunned like a helpless Tsar
Which everyone saw was bizarre

Sadly enough he was never astound
And wondered why his friends were so cruel
He would rather go to a pool and drown
Until the discovery of hatred was found

Meanwhile a girl by the name of Jewel
Noticed all the comments towards Billy were curt
She decided to tell him during school
As she waited for her crush at the newel

Wanting to halt Billy from being disconcert
Jewel went to him to show she had care
As they stood together with tons of hurt
All the pain was lifted as they continued to flirt

Billy began starting to declare
That they were tighter than a bouquet
And Jewel was worth more than a gem so rare
As his limits was diminished in thin air
Kush Jun 2017
A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for His meal

It is my sworn duty to tend to Him and his arcane needs
a result of purchasing Alveus Manor, my current home
Strangely, it has been many decades since
Yet, I do not age but for my mind

To maintain a sense of control on things, I ponder
Many hours have been spent toiling in reflection
forgotten lovers, forgotten names
They mean precious little now

There is a singular memory that screeches loudest
some deal sealed with incantations and blood
scars adorn my wrists in confirmation
This memory is certainly true

I set the bowl out near the darkest part of my manor
From the floor, a trapdoor creaks upwards
I see the sharp glint of some child’s eyes
They dart around on an elderly face

He snatches the bowl with pale claws and blinks expectantly
It is then that I remember the burning whims of my duty
With a dagger and a prayer, my wrist spurts
Red nutrition cakes into the container

Prize in hand, He scurries back underneath the floor
sounds of primal content slither along the walls
He clambers back up with satisfaction
I am to be rewarded

He holds the bowl as if praising Old Gods across our universe
Elixir jets past teeth that resemble those of an infant
Creamy white substance settles in the bowl
It seems the result of melted moons

I do as I have done since first moving into this cursed place
I drink the ghostly elixir without any extrinsic cause
He flashes blood-stained teeth and hobbles away
Instantly, my eyes brighten and my skin tightens

My name has long been struck from history as well
My purpose remains free of doubt or suspicion
I return to bed in morbid anticipation
Drifting into madness, I fall asleep

A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for his meal
loosely based on personal events
Alveus roughly means "teapot" in Latin

— The End —