"madwoman" poems
I am bound to her by blood,
this madwoman of a city
with eyes that see
a comatose heart, with no feeling.
One, two, three hundred,
a thousand —
we are all carbon copies
of her silicone ******* collagen cheeks
teeth bleached whiter
than the pearls we adorn ourselves with.
I was a child
when I left this madwoman,
mother of my younger years.
I left her drinking cuba libres,
stirring ice with her finger,
her nails crimson red.
I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.”
She turned her face back to the barrio
and said, “Adios, Muchacha.”
Years later, I look back on my youth.
I remember her as the mother I lost
the sister I never had
the woman I was afraid to become.
If only she knew
how easy she was to leave
how difficult she was to forget.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Spanish
Yo hacía una divina labor, sobre la roca
Creciente del Orgullo. De la vida lejana,
Algún pétalo vívido me voló en la mañana,
Algún beso en la noche. Tenaz como una loca,
Sequía mi divina labor sobre la roca.
Cuando tu voz que funde como sacra campana
En la nota celeste la vibración humana,
Tendió su lazo do oro al borde de tu boca;
—Maravilloso nido del vértigo, tu boca!
Dos pétalos de rosa abrochando un abismo…—
Labor, labor de gloria, dolorosa y liviana;
¡Tela donde mi espíritu su fue tramando él mismo!
Tú quedas en la testa soberbia de la roca,
Y yo caigo, sin fin, en el sangriento abismo!
English
I was at my divine labor, upon the rock
Swelling with Pride. From a distance,
At dawn, some bright petal came to me,
Some kiss in the night. Upon the rock,
Tenacious a madwoman, I clung to my work.
When your voice, like a sacred bell,
A celestial note with a human tremor,
Stretched its golden lasso from the edge of your mouth;
—Marvelous nest of vertigo, your mouth!
Two rose petals fastened to an abyss…—
Labor, labor of glory, painful and frivolous;
Fabric where my spirit went weaving herself!
You come to the arrogant head of the rock,
And I fall, without end, into the ****** abyss!
2.9k
If Emily Dickinson was writing a suicide letter:
Dear Soft Reality,
Your presence brings me grief and your absence leaves me emptily blissful. You leave my heart to suffer under your cold dagger of truth. I see no purpose to further seek you, only to face my murderer in the bitter realms of my heart that have been so tortured by your harsh precision. To go on would be madness, but perhaps that is what I have become. A madwoman, trapped by lies of true love and wishful thinking. My heart was so filled with the falsity that has become love, and compassion. To completely give yourself to somebody, to find out that their heart already belongs to another fortunate soul, has by far been the down fall of my sanity. I cannot cry any more, what good would it do. I cannot deny the truth that my love has been poured into an bottomless pitcher…but oh how beautiful that pitcher was. It promised me everything I could dream of, so pristine and clean, signifying all that is good. It was decorated with ornate blossoms that told of new beginnings and hope and it’s spout was graced with delicate greenery that promised fortitude and protection from all that could bring harm. Now all I see is despair. As I took a closer look at its intricate detail, I began to nice the rotting leaves that lay beneath the blossoms, and the tiny thorns that lay prominently on the vinery across the spout. It has been a trap from the beginning, and I am in love with it.
However, I have poured my soul into that pitcher, and I have nothing left. My heart is parched and crackling, and my love has dried up on the shores of desperation. All that I have loved is gone, and my hope of release lies in a steel barrel of pain that lies in my left hand. It is beautifully real. I can wrap all of my loathing fingers around its cold trigger; it shows me the only truth that has been made clear to me. Death. I have been yet a tall drink, chilled on ice, numbed to reality, sipped on by the devil himself. Well the devil has had his share and is drunk on my love, leaving me an empty glass, with melted ice. I can feel every pang of you. There is nothing more for me here.
I shall introduce this truth to my mouth, and it will be sweet, like the first time I met his lips, so gentle and unassuming. Only this time, when death is promised, it will not be masked with love and tenderness. My tongue will make love to its silver bullet, as my mind slips into peace and silence from the wolves of my torment.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
dearest stranger,
i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.
and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.
am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?
am i still actually here?
bidding my farewell now,
ginia
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 11:35 PM UTC
i am a madwoman
so mad that i lay awake at night
and wonder whether youre mind
is racing as fast as mine
looking to win first place
and land in the depths of my happiness
i am a madwoman
so mad that i wander through the day
aimlessly strolling
from store to store
looking for the perfect distraction
while secretly hoping that i am yours
i am a madwoman
so mad that i pick up my phone
every now and then and call you
just to check if youre still there
because my mind can’t seem to forget you yet
i am a madwoman
so mad that i plunge myself into every minuscule task
working for a bone, like a dog
to avoid the gruesome possibilities
that i know are most likely true
i am a madwoman
because a madwoman can convince herself
of the impossible
and i have managed to convince myself
that you love me
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
illusions soil damp with summer rain
we are silence creeping softly
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter tea and stale buttery breads
our stealth footprints leaning to the shadows trail us
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
turn to whisper your hush-now's and stifle the laughter
tis serious things afoot in the majestic night
seed lain with casual grunts
by the farmers son come of age
till foolish boy reckons what hes done
but storm riding in and no time to dawdle
bread in the basket and skittles in the cookfire
whats to be done whats to be done
he sweeps his mistakes aside and plows onward
like his pappy would have done
illusions soil fertile
and fools will take to heart any tale
so we have come sneakin' and creepin'
to harvesting our due
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter teas and stale buttery breads
feed the fools mind with all manner of delusion
and while we sit and sup in the heavenly scented field
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
he will be singing and dancing a madwoman's jig
under a lunatic moon
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
I work with knots,
loosen ends from ends,
careful not to snag
or break fragile cords,
intricate tangles of silken affairs.
But the ends unravel
as I release tension,
and I find myself knotting the ends again.
Over and over, I bind and unbind,
until the cycle lashes out
like a madwoman in desperate straits.
I want to write the wrongs, right them,
straighten them into one long, lengthy rope,
then try my luck again.
Find strands that won't untwine;
create the perfect notaffair.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
somewhere in between
the lost voices echoing
in my heart of hearts
and the burning in the
back of my eyes as you
told me your goodbyes,
i lost my sanity.
and i guess that it's my fault
for loving you so recklessly,
and it's my fault for carving
the image of you smiling
under the august sun
into the walls of my worn out heart.
because ever since you left
i spend hours in the shower trying to
scrub away your ghostly fingertips
from my skin
but at night i claw at the places
you touched most,
trying like a madwoman to feel
your presence once again.
i say your name like a mantra
that governs the very existence
of my consciousness
and some days i feel the bile
rise in my chest as I hear
your name on the street.
i am tired of empty eyes
and trembling bones.
i am tired of being a ghost
of the girl i once was
and if i'm being honest
-and i am-
you were my beginning
as well as my ending.
so how do you expect a person
to go on when all the air
has been pulled from their lungs?
these days in the spaces between my sheets
i still smell your musky cologne
and i spend hours heaving out
memories that i had etched into
the marrow of my bones.
i am a madwoman
that lost herself in a fire
of loveless eyes and passionate
nothings.
i am a madwoman.
i am just a madwoman.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
The universe is screaming at me
into my ears, brain, and heart
the whiteness
the brightness
tears in my eyes
it has attacked me like the plague
that has no cure
bringing me higher and higher
into the enlightenment
that is my reward
You are part of the glory
the karma, the foreverness of my
soul
beside me, behind me,
in fron of me,
within me,
are me
crying and laughing
like a madwoman some would say
but
I know, you know, and the universe knows
that I have heard the screams
and know what they mean
as we turn to light
and embrace
what was meant to be
in the name of
eternity
Nov 16, 2009
Nov 16, 2009 at 3:55 PM UTC
The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.
But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!
Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.
That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.
This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:45 AM UTC
Rain patters on the window
hurricane winds whistle round about
my mind.
I hear the rain, amazed that the sun's rays
still fall to earth, warming and nurturing
Cocooned in a throw, I look at the room
I've lain in for three days in a pain of my making.
I've become a cliche, the madwoman in the attic
lamenting lost love, lost life.
Cruelty knows no bounds, yet it binds.
Rhythmically the rain batters at the panes.
I don't want praise, I like my malaise
I feel real when I feel pain
I lie slain on the floor, amidst the wreckage
of a marriage.
I've died over and over these last three days
I want to get up and comfort you
To tell you that your life will go on
Mine had to end. I'm sorry you found me
on the floor, tablets strewn everywhere.
Baby steps now my love
you knew I was broken,
there's only so many matryoshka dolls in the original
I'm still here my love, it's just better that
you don't see me, but I can watch over you.
Your heart is broken, filling with rain and tears
my heart and soul was broken when the ink was dry
on the paper declaring us over.
When I get up from the floor, I want you to listen to the rain and
know it's me, my ghost knocking at your door.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
I don't want a simple girl.
I want a madwoman.
A ***** who can stimulate my mind,
my very own Poison Ivy.
A catalyst for inner growth,
an extension of my Self.
I crave a woman unlike any other,
as complex as they come;
Whose beauty is the wisdom
of the Universe when sung--
in its native tongue. --[Love];)
I yearn for a woman..
just as intricate as I.
A Creator, a mountain mover,
a mindful singularity.
The woman who inspires me to be,
to write, to become great.
The only one I must impress.
She, who notices the subtleties
that go unspoken,
and the intricacies
that elude all other muses.
I seek the Love that enables.
The Love, that is Life, thriving.
I refuse to accept-- just any
ordinary household love.
I long for the synergy of mind,
of two souls entwined--
In a neurological nexus.
I pray..
for a symphony of Love,
with God as the composer,
where she and I,
comprise the notes,
to the Magnum Opus
of Divinity.
-Elswer
(Raziel Flores)
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection*
What you are about to read will shock you. Some may find it extremely disturbing. I will tell you from the outset, also, that i am quite "insane". According to the psychiatrists "Schizo-Affective". Manic-Depressive with Paranoid features.
I will freely admit that what you will read here will sound crazy. But please read on. It may be horrifying. It may be weird. It may seem extremely paranoid. But it still interests.
It is my desperate hope that you will read. And believe me. For, my "diagnosis" notwithstanding, I am as sane as the next "normal" person. *I AM NOT A LUNATIC!* What you are about to read really happened. *To ME*. It has plot twisting tension that could be put to the credit of Alfred Hitchcock. And a psychological horror that Steven King could emulate. How could I compare my writing to the genius of those great & talented men? I don't. Because, dear readers, I did not conceive of it. It was done to me. I merely convey the technology and techniques used to make any "normal person" appear a ****** Toon of 50 mile high proportions! It exists. And it is excruciatingly painful to be the subject of it.
So why would a girl from a comparatively small city, with no seeming accomplishments to commend her, and is actually quite unimportant, be the subject of such hateful torment? *What has she done?* I will convey ALL of the reasons. I did play a part in it. I had a tri-fold lawsuit against a once-high-profile video dating club, who wanted to prevent litigation by thoroughly discrediting me. And I had a very virulent and hateful foe...
The "Church" of SCIENTOLOGY.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I think I may have a small insight into that manic madman, madwoman,
you know the one; love potions and abortions all at the same time.
He, She, obviously reads poetry here and taking it all literally thinks we are all in need of a witchdoctor to cure us from love lost, love to gain, or purge us of any love child.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the Mental Health System Connection
SEEKER*
Now I can hear you saying to yourselves,
"So. You said you were smart. Why did you get involved with a crazy cult like Scientology?" Well. Two reasons. 1) I was raised an atheist (Humanist), but had a seeker's soul. I became very spiritual, like I said. I also had a desire to HELP people. Humanity. I still do. But because I had a godless upbringing I was left open to deception. And 2) I found a boyfriend. Or, I should say, he found me. One of Scientology's tried and true methods of recruitment.
I had another friend, a ***** Jewish scientologist (yes, there can be that sort of thing, as you can be "any faith" and still be a scientologist... hmph!). She introduced us. I was impressed by two things. He was an instructor at the "Mission". And he could tell you things that seemed psychic. One of the procedures for impressing people to sign up for classes and "processing" was this. Doug would position you in a certain part of the room. He'd have his back to you. Then he'd tell you to walk away from him... then stop abruptly.
**He'd be able to tell you when you stopped!** And he could do it every time! This really impressed me. Until I found out he looked into the reflective surface of a large glass covered poster that was on the wall! Lol! What a con artistic magician HE was! HA!
I was totally gone over by the registrar (salesperson). She stuck to me like glue until she FINALLY figured out, Yes! I had NO MONEY! So I didn't get any training or processing. Which was a BIG part of why I stuck around. I didn't even read "Dianetics" by L Ron Hubbard. Doug told me a little about it. But most of his energy was expended trying to get in my pants... a fruitless endeavor to say the least!
He was instrumental in getting me up to Phoenix for the fateful "Flag Orientation Tour". The recruitment campaign which would change my life forever...
Where I signed my life over to Scientology's Sea Organization for the next BILLION YEARS.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
.you could possibly rewrite the sudoku puzzle, using letters, i.e., to replace 4, 6, 8, 9... with D, b, B and P... alternatively the lowercase b with Q.
. i really have to stop borrowing
from the Zen concept
of ensō - with what the "circle"
represents -
namely? heihō, i.e. the "square" -
namely, what comes after
absolute enlightenment,
strength, elegance, the universe,
and mu (the void) -
i.e., alternatively: the nu, or?
the filling...
heihō is an elevated noun
denoting a sudoku puzzle...
it begins with the key and lock
analogy, borrowed from greek:
Φ (insert the key)
θ (turn it, open the door,
and subsequently enter) -
all sudoku puzzles begin like so...
□ that becomes Φ, θ
that becomes #
that subsequently becomes ■ -
after many instances of
—, |, / and \ considerations...
this idea only came to mind,
bothered by an obstruction
on the 10,050 puzzle...
0 0 0
0 4 2
1 3 9
2 7 5
4 6 8
8 9 4
3 2 0 } these three blanks
0 0 7 i was concerned with...
1 0 0
0 0 5
0 6 0
___________
x y z
___________
( 6 5 1 )
( 5 1 6 )
( 1 ) **** no alternatives...
and given there's a fractional choice,
conundrum, i.e. there are only
two viable choices?
well? neither.
the solution? i had to be patient with it,
after all, it's akin to Zen "circle"
concept, namely?
you can't make a mistake -
given you're using such, "primitive"
tools as a pen on paper...
5 8 6 4 3 9 2 1 7
7 4 2 1 6 8 3 9 5
9 1 3 5 7 2 8 6 4
1 3 9 7 2 4 5 ζ 6
2 7 5 3 8 6 9 γ 1
4 6 8 9 5 1 7 3 2
8 9 4 2 1 5 χ 7 3
3 2 1 6 9 7 4 5 8
6 5 7 8 4 3 1 2 9
yet this wasn't the pinnacle of
the evening...
some "madwoman", singing,
in the night... the most beautiful songs...
it was hard not to listen,
given she went on for about 3 hours...
kept singing and singing...
sometimes giving
a frivolous explanation to someone
trying to interrupt her...
a woman in love...
just kept singing and singing...
defiantly english -
i can't recall the last time
i heard a woman sing so beautifully -
not armed, standing behind
a microphone, on a stage -
with a band behind her...
this girl's voice had but one stage:
the night -
and her backing band?
simply the moon;
and an appreciative audience of one...
moi.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
GILDED CAGE*
Unlike the pampered, well heeled clients of my "faith", I didn't enter the Fort Harrison Hotel via the opulent main entrance. I made my appearance through the back. The garage entrance was less than hospitable. And, I noticed, there seemed to be people living in the cold, drafty motor housing! When I asked about this strange berthing, Noah was much less than forthcoming. "RPF", he mumbled. Well. What's an RPF when it's at home? Then I saw a few of the denizens of said "RPF". I knew very little about it. Only that it was punishment. For people were "out-ethics". WOW. The RPF "sleeping quarters" had bunks three high, and was protected only marginally from the winds that swept through that garage.
There was an RPF person who was coming through the breezeway as I entered. He stepped aside very deferentialy, and said, "Excuse me, Sirs!" to Noah and I. WOW. I'd never had THAT kind of treatment in my life! I guess I was someone important! This bubble was burst immediately. I met the I/C of the FRU.
She was not in a good mood, as I recall. But, then, who ever really was in this Organization? She DID TRY to be nice. Greeted me clammily, and put on a spurious smile. She recognized I needed sleep, at least. Upon walking through the building, the rooms got more and more posh. I was to get to my berthing through the hotel lobby, apparently. It was grand! But in a sort of an outdated way. I really don't remember much else. Except for the conditions in my sleeping quarters. Only marginally better than the RPF! bunks three high! Junk everywhere (some of the new recruits had yet to figure out that they should cull their possessions to a minimum). Guess who was designated the top bunk? You got it. And moi was not a happy camper! As I climbed the rickety ladder to the top bunk I remember thinking, "How much lower can a person go?"
I WAS, EVENTUALLY, TO FIND OUT.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
I started as a madwoman deep in my heart,
The paint on my face,
The stick figure on paper.
I kept going like a madwoman,
The school pencils as my main utensils,
And the lined paper as my trusty canvas.
I gave up like a madwoman,
Blinded by society,
And believing that I'd never be content.
I broke through the barriers like a madwoman,
Scribbling left and right,
And embracing the drive for betterment.
If I can just continue on,
Unsettled and free hands running,
I'll always be happy to be a madwoman.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
When the sirens echoed through the streets
When they handcuffed me so that I wouldn’t hurt anybody
I pleaded for help but deaf ears heard my screams
“You are a monster” chanted the voices briefly.
All I could see was red.
When I noticed the knife I must have held,
A ****** canvas spilt on the floor, hands bled,
I saw her once again that moment,
Sitting right in front of me murmuring to herself.
Sad young girl, long blonde hair,
Pale white skin and stench of death,
Baring her jagged teeth
Scars on her body etched in flame,
Chipping away my insecurities bit by bit,
Playing with a sharp little blade,
“Just in Case” she said.
All I could see was red.
When they took me to prison,
Changed my clothes to white and red,
Triggering colors to my psyche,
I saw that clown yet again.
The one with a wide smile, masking nice.
I knew the nefarious intentions he hid,
Petrified, I bowed my head and cried.
All I could see was red.
Out of the corner of my eyes I could see it there,
Across the chamber,
On the wall up high
Working a trap with its leathery grisly little legs
When I stared at it,
Feeling the dread rise in my chest
It stared right back at me as if
Suddenly conscious of my presence,
It crawled its way over to me, daunting slowly,
The closer those creaking feet came to me,
Sinister voices of children giggling engulfed me.
I screamed for help once again and
This time a few voices of reality came back at me.
When I explained to them the monsters in my cell,
The crazy echoes I heard in my head,
“Madwoman” some called out but
Some reached out to help.
My life isn’t much different than yours.
We dream the same dreams,
Feel the same feelings.
The only difference being,
My nightmares blend with reality.
My life is a waking nightmare.
Through the battles I fought with my mind,
Ones I still fight each day,
I’m growing to embrace the clowns and spiders I see,
The same ones right here today.
Sometimes alone and sometimes with help,
All I see is red.
All I feel is red.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
BACKGROUND*
I was born Catherine Eugenia Jarvis, and I was a horrible child. The kinda kid that you'd LOOK for if she got lost... but NOT very hard. I was the sandwich child. The red headed one. The BAD girl. A terrible tease.
But inside I SO longed to be loved. There just wasn't alot of that to go 'round. Mom was working or sick. And dad worked LONG hours. My sister and I were ***** at age 4 & 3 respectively. She felt guilty she couldn't "protect" me, so she withdrew. Then my little brother was born. He was my sister's little doll. And it wounded me so that I lashed out. I targeted my poor little brother. I called him names, names that I knew went straight to his HEART. I'm weeping now. How I wish I could change the past! Dear reader, I have a samurai tongue. And I knew how to cut where it would hurt the MOST. A fact *I'm not at all proud of!* But, it happened. I was also mean to my pets. But inside i wept SO bitterly! I did not want to do what I did! But SOMETHING compelled me...
Then at the age of 13 I began to drink. I started using "white crosses". *** By 14 I was using LSD. *** Peyote. I was SO out of control! My poor parents despaired...
Then... a MIRACLE! My parents put me in college when I was 16. I hated high school with a PASSION. I didn't fit in anywhere. Not even with the stoners. I was kicked out of my 10th year for ditching and possession of marijuana. My vice-principle told me I'd always be a LOSER. That I'd never accomplish anything in life. Nice. He put me in Juvie. My parents got a psychologist. He said I was bored in high school because I was too smart. So they put me in college. I THRIVED! I still ditched a bit, but I could take ART CLASSES! And WRITING! POETRY! And MUSIC! And the people were SO different! They LIKED ME! Well. Part of THAT was because I lost weight. About 50 lbs! I was actually pretty. For the first time in my life. And to say THAT was confusing wouldn't be nearly enough.
At any rate, I'd CHANGED. I became very spiritual. I read about Transcendental Meditation. I read the book "Siddhartha". I dabbled in the Self Realization Fellowship.
And, finally, I joined the
***"Church" of Scientology.
THE WORST MISTAKE OF MY YOUNG LIFE***
I was 19 years old.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
BG: On High, ***** ranting about a new alphabet!
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2140791/a-poet-wondered/
YOU wrote, ***** read...
down looking to make some trouble,
what he likes to do on weekends,
heard about your poem,
trying to create a new alphabet,
and got mightily ******
(at you)
we have an open IM,
and live crosstown
from each other,
and ***** is kinda shy,
(from gender confusion,)
asked me to relay this to you,
Madame BG Star:
you, who writes a new poem
on the hour, got a *** of nerve,
dissatisfied with the limits
of your tools, should not overly complain!
you got gifted, and use up your allotment
of alpha rearrangements and never get billed,
should be more considerate,
and just
write more.
and then he said something else,
because he always gets the last
word...
*you have an affinity for the letter L
it would appear, so here is your punishment,
for the rest of the week
write like a madwoman*
but no words that employ this lala sound!
how do you like that my little lollipop ******
having scored some five and dime bags,
(cannabis legal not, up above)
went home to run the world in his
usual state
of (dis)grace
don't b-ame the messenger,
cause he said over his shoulder as departing
on his fiery chariot,
that applies to you too
u troublemaking
_Eft Foot Poet
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
WONDERLAND: THE FLATTENED APPLE*
Someone told me once Los Angeles was the Flattened Apple. You take New York City and squish it down like a pancake and you've got Los Angeles. Someone else told me that the Big Apple is full of worms. Well. If Los Angeles is any indication, that statement goes well beyond truth.
There are parts of LA that are quite beautiful. The parts the wealthy live in. But that was sure not the part I was living in. My first station in the Sea Organization was on Hollywood Boulevard.
My first real memory of Hollywood was viewing the nightcrawlers. The tacky, ****** prostitutes of both sexes on the corners. The Street Preachers looking only a half step above the subjects of their ardent sermons. I had never had any real encounters with homeless people where I was from. Hollywood was a magnet for them it seemed. Their hair askew, and shopping carts with stuttering wheels de rigueur. The touristas. Japanese with their ubiquitous cameras. The Midwestern jons seeking the hookers (of both sexes). The stars on the Hollywood sidewalks seemed to have fallen from the smoggy sky, to lie tarnished amongst the refuse, inanimate and human. It was like a sledge to the chest... and broke my HEART.
I was given some worn, old-smelling sheets, and the address of the place I was to be sleeping for the next few weeks. It turned out to be a flop-house. At first I thought there had been a mistake. But I was not the only SO member to be entering. I went to my room... so small you had to go out into the hall to change your mind. The toilets were communal and up the hallway. My sleeping arrangement? A twin-style matress on the floor. No other "furniture" graced the room....
... **WELCOME TO "CHURCH".**
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:17 AM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
**PAPERS! PAPERS EVERYWHERE...
AND NOT A* THING TO READ!**
The thing I remember most about being in the Sea Organization at the Hollywood Org were all the PAPERS! Directives as I was to find. That's what they called memos. We were in a branch of L Ron Hubbard's private little army don'tcha know. Everything, therefore, had a military bent. More specifically we were in the navy. There were personnel who were labeled "bosons". And there were people with the rank of "Supercargo". And Commanding Officers. Actually, LRH would have liked us to be thought of as MARINES. Navy Seals!
He was really THAT egotistical. HIS title was COMMODORE. Yep. His overweening pride took him THAT FAR.
ANYWAY. So there was a storm of paper. Directives EVERYWHERE! Piled on desks. In inbaskets. In boxes. On filing cabinets, which were woefully insufficient for the veritable blizzard of PAPERS! I was forced to read these. DULL AS DITCHWATER. But I was given my own little pile, and a dictionary. Any words I didn't understand could be found in there. I was to look them up. And an extensive memo about the meaning of the Scientogeese which I was to learn. There was an entire LEXICON of THAT, let me tell you! More on that later on. AND we we didn't have TIME to read anything ELSE! Our day was filled with CHORES.... or reading of said PAPERS.
Then I began to notice the other "personnel" around me. NONE of whom appeared to be HAPPY. They were a grayish sort. Looked like the sun very seldom glanced their skin. Glum, yet (for all appearances), VERY dedicated. Then there were folk who seemed to be separate from the other workers. They wore filthy dark blue or black clothing, appeared to run everywhere, and address everyone as "Sir". They were called the RPF. Rehabilitation Project Force. Remember that unit and its abbreviation. For they are to loom large later in my narrative.
But there WAS one person who brought sunshine into my otherwise dreary world...
MARILYN.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
***A tale of Scientology and the
Mental Health System***
I'm going to tell a tragic tale
A writ of pain and woe.
I've been to places, reader,
Where folk seldom go.
I'm "insane", I will confess
The "doctors" told me so
But I have art
and HAVE a HEART
This I intend to SHOW
I am *going to write this
BECAUSE FOLKS NEED TO KNOW!!!*
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
I WOKE UP IN HELL*
I must've slept a good four hours before I was awoken by a peal of crazy laughter. The other girls had gotten up, and were not at ALL respectful of the fact that I'd arrived only hours ago, and needed a full nights sleep. There were nine of us in that room... the size of a small motel room. And one mirror. One sink. ONE TOILET. IT WAS INSANE.
The cackle was emanating from a bleached blonde who's face was reminiscent of a Proboscis monkey. "How'm ah gonna bleach mah hayah?! She asked, querrilously. Her drawl was purposely drawn out and irritating. She pulled at the lifeless black & white reverse skunk fur on her head. Then announced that she needed to dye her ***** hair, too! except she put it with such vulgarity I blushed.
"SHUT UP!" Shouted a girl with eyes flared open so wide you could see the whites completely around the irises as black as olives. This female was to become my worst enemy. But right now I seconded her sentiment profoundly. And said so. Her eyes snapped my direction and narrowed. She didn't like me from the jump. Some women are like that. And there is no appeasing them. The other girls I got along with. But not her. NEVER her.
The blonde stormed from the tiny room, shooting me such a poisonous look that I felt the acid spray my face. Cheers went up from several of my roommates. But black-eyes just turned a shoulder as cold as liquid nitrogen.
"Serious. How do we bathe? I asked. The shower was, evidently, broken.
"There's showers by the pool area," replied a pretty, albeit rather pear shaped girl. She was stuffed into a blouse & skirt which appeared 2 sizes too small. "C'mon. I'll show you..."
We left the mildewed room, the lazer beams of black-eye boring into my back...
I HAD JUST MADE A DANGEROUS ENEMY, WITHOUT KNOWING HOW OR WHY.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC