Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the
west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.

a companion piece to
miniskirts & high heels vs. poetry & yoga^
<•>

a couple of buds at a local dive bar, drinking Buds,
talking loud about technology
and other manly man stuff

attract attention for our conversation isn't bout sports,
get approached by long legs in high heels and a miniskirt,
with the best come on line ever
any woman invented,
"you guys know about computers, huh?"

later after reading twenty or so of her poems,
and learning the degree of difficulty of the
downward facing dog pose
(adho mukha svanasana)
she said:

tell me again how I
clear my cache,
change my font,
add more memory for new memories,
stop auto correct from making wont into want,
so I can happy write

"wont thy thoughts to my heart thereof"

so I obliged and then
the geek in meek wrote
his first poem

after first clearing the catch  
in his throat

In miniskirt she
Dances, streaked hair and all that
but oh, she is old!

Capturing scenes from fashion shows in the past, Glamourizing Ladies And Men modeling hosted their annual spring fashion show.

The event was a runway-style fashion show, with looks recreated from GLAM’s past. The show also featured talents ranging from poetry and singing to painting.

Patrick Davis, a senior general studies major, and Christina Brown, a freshman biological sciences major, hosted the show.

The introduction of the show was called “Once Upon a Time.” The scene was from a 2012 show and centered on a little girl’s favorite fairytales taking a twisted turn in her dreams.

It opened with the little girl getting told bedtime stories from her father.

After getting the stories read to her, the rest of the GLAM models emerged from under her bed and began to torment the little girl.

The ladies of GLAM then emerged for a scene named “Pop Art.”

“Pop Art” was created in 2012 and incorporated the use of recyclables such as newspaper, duct tape, water bottles, cups and more in the model’s outfits.

The models were dressed in outfits that they created.

The first model wore a dress made out of a plastic bag and yellow caution tape.

The next model wore a dress that was fitted and made of plastic bags and duct tape.

There was a flare skirt made out of newspapers, and another skirt was made using old magazines.

There was also a fitted skirt made only of caution tape and a flare skirt made of white foam cups.

The final outfit of the scene was a dress made of black plastic bags and caution tape. The caution tape was also made into a necklace.

The following scene was titled “Lust/Burlesque.”

Burlesque was created in 2013 for GLAM’s Halloween show “The Seven Deadly Sins.” It incorporated tasteful dancing and runway style walking.

This scene opened up with three models dressed in all black attire, performing a dance routine.

The models hit the stage in several costumes, many of which were handmade by the models themselves.

One model wore black shorts, a black cropped shirt and blue high heels with blue and white wings.

Another outfit used a cheetah print swimsuit, with pink coverings and a back piece made of twigs and feathers.

Alexis Scott, a junior pre-nursing major, performed her poetry piece titled “Honest Truth.”

In her poem, she spoke about a broken relationship with her father. She also spoke about hiding all of her feelings and often putting on a fake smile to the world.

“Yesterday I tripped on my self-esteem and landed on my pride,” Scott said.

The next scene of the show was titled “Concrete Jungle.”

This scene was adopted from a 2014 show and featured business attire with a fashionable twist.

Outfits from this scene included a pleated black dress with white stripes at the bottom, a gray handbag, and black heels.

Another outfit included a purple blazer, a crème and yellow floral printed top, black dress pants and black high-heeled shoes.

A model wore a blue fitted miniskirt, a black and white cheetah print satin shirt and black heels.

The scene after this was titled “Criminology” and was taken from a 2011 show titled “FAME University.”

This scene gave a glimpse into the mind of a woman when she has snapped.

The scene opened up with red flashing lights with four models doing a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” and a monologue.

The monologue told the story about how each woman killed their husbands. The models wore outfits such as black shorts, black leather shirts, black boots and black high heels.

In a talent section, while Keyana Latimer, a sophomore sociology major sang, she was accompanied by Taleiya Baker, a junior music education major.

While they were singing, D’Ajah Douglas, a freshman studio art major, and Yasmine Washington, a freshman studio art major, painted pictures while Latimer also performed a tap dancing piece.

The show concluded with a final walk from all of the GLAM models wearing black and purple shirts with GLAM Modeling written on them, blue jeans and high heels.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....

She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!

She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.

And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.

Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!

Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!

There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011

It is not often I dream of you.
Dressed in copper and brick,
Growing green with vines,
Climbing your crumbling walls.

This castle you once kept in an
Easily forgotten part of my body.
A bastion against burial
Between shoulder blade and spine.

You who choose never to announce your
Presence when entering the room.
Simply sit in the corner, tilting your wine glass
Till I notice your ever increasing stare.

Most nights, I ignore you.
Ignore your black miniskirt and pearls,
Ignore your orange sundress
And turquoise necklace,

Ignore gladiator sandals,
And Barcelona bracelet,
First worn when we still
Had the simplicity of spring.

Some rare nights like this one
I grab you by your thumbs
And pull you under the table.
Relive our longing out of the sight

Of these new dinner guests,
Crawling awkwardly between their legs.

This is how
You have always worked.
Drawing ink from my body,
One pen:knife awakening at a time

What happened to her was disgusting
But she should have better not been out in the night alone
So what it was her job, she's not a man,a girl isn't safe on these roads

And what happened to her was indeed dastardly
But why did she have to go to that area
Being in that situation was partly her fault

The boys were indeed monsters
But did see what that teen wore
Her miniskirt might have turned them on
(Oh she was in a saree,never mind,moving along)

Of course it's all the boy's fault
But does good girl drink alcohol
What was she doing partying at 11'o clock
Maybe she was friendly and her no sounded like a yes,
You know,boys will be boys afterall

What they did,they should rot in hell
But why the hell did she take a strangers' help
I guess thats what being too friendly entails

And she has my full support
But, but,she was not a very 'nice' girl ,if you know what I mean
The jobs she did,the places she went
I heard she had many boyfriends
And don't take it in the wrong way
But she sort of caused it upon her

And that's why kids
Keep company of only 'good' people
And follow our orders
If you wish not such dishonour
Always be prim and proper

I can't imagine the pain she must be in
Now who will marry a bride with lost honour
All the reputation of the family is lost,better keep this a secret,don't tell the police

It's none of her fault of course
But western values did spoil the gal

And the boys did a grievous wrong
But she could have tried not being so free
It's not a West European city

Well you know what I mean
She could have, well, tried not existing

.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.

She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.

Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.

A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.

Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.

She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.

Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.

She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****.

Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?

But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.

And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.


© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)

They didn’t like my naked body.
My roughed up, pale skin
My nestled dark hair on the sides of my armskins
My tiny ******* peeking, cusp of womanhood

“The naked body isn’t natural, you’ve misunderstood.”

Oh okay, so today I’ll put on my miniskirt.

“You clearly hold no respect for yourself and are conforming to these Hollywood standards that a woman must look like a ****. How un-feminist of yourself.”

Oh, then today I’ll put on a dress.

“What are you doing? Conforming to patriarchy? To this idea that you must be the epitome of innocence and revel in this idea a girl must be a silly fool?”

Fine, today I’Il put on a T-Shirt.

“Goodness! No sense of style! No sense of class! No sense of taste! As a woman, you should be trying to look the part of one that is polished!”

What a ******* mess.
FINE! Maybe I should wear a nun’s dress!

“Oh no, today that’s suggestive, a costume for Halloween,”

Waxed
Shaved
Scrubbed
Plucked
Trimmed
Moisturized
Se­xualized
Materialized
Labelled
Packaged
Stored
Selling
Sold

Today, a total loss,
nothing could’ve been
done to save it.

Today was relegated
to the wierdos,
the lady who wears her
cat on her head,
her daughter’s miniskirt
hovers just below her
naughty bits as I ask
momma my litany.

And, I’m an all-American
red-blood, to be sure.
I would look, I would,
but that poor kiddo’s
got a face like a trainwreck,
so none of it looks worth
looking at, if you ask me.

I’m just trying to get out
the door of the cat-hatted
lady and her daughter,
the clockstopper.

Getting back to the office,
putting some desk-time in,
I call the war vet with the PTSD
so deep that it’s in his DNA.

His voice, so quiet
the rage underneath
is audible.

Cradling the phone,
I fret for just a bit,
wondering if his meds
are doing their duty,
and pondering the next
visit to his address.
*

©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell

We don’t dance here anymore.

We balance on wobbly stools
and order PBRs with whiskey backs,
sidestepping the looks we tend to give
each other in the mirror behind the bar.

Tonight is Christmas Eve again.
Again, tonight is Christmas Eve.

Reflected in a frosted window
framed by multicolored lights,
our waitress wears a miniskirt
and candy cane-striped tights.

Her laugh rings like the silver
bell of tomorrow’s hangover.

We are not the ones racking
another game of eight-ball
or feeding the jukebox or
tossing darts at the wall.

That’s not us, the hipster couple
exchanging sardonic repartee,
clever tattoos comingling as
they trade kisses in the corner.

Could that ever have been us?

Here is where we *****
it up and tamp it down.

Here is where we wait
for our future to finish
its careful unwrapping.

Here is where we say
thank you and drown,

tangled together in
ribbons of twilight.

That yellow miniskirt
On
My
Cylindrical
Slim body,
Makes you uncontrolled,
I feel your fingers over me
That touch,
Your lips
And that fire you lighted on me
Gives you pleasure
The more you inhale me inside
The more you feel high
But suddenly
You leave me unsatisfied
Then,
I hear your voice
“Bro, can I have another cigarette?

I wear my American Culture like
a miniskirt and crop top
underneath a
trenchcoat.

My family burdens
are burned
into my brain like
my father brands
our cows.

IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE

Yawns
into my morning

wearing only my
Edvard Munch’s THE SCREAM

Tee-shirt
(so that’s where it’s gone)

which is a mere
miniskirt on her

scratching a well tanned
behind.

All smeared mascara
all Cleopatra eyes

all mad crazy hair
mad as a bag of spiders

dancing
(sleepily to)

Amen Corner
on the summer radio.

Takes my toast
from my poised hand

takes a bite
crunchily...noisily

then puts it back
in exactly the same position.

Pats me
on my head

“Mmmmmm.... thanks Dad! ”

“Stolen toast is always
twice as nice! ”

Sings softly
swaying to herself

“If Paradise is half
as nice

“As the Heaven that you take me
to...”

(Ooops...slops
spills her orange juice)

“...who needs Paradise? ”

“I’d rather...have you! ”

Then suddenly excitedly
talking to boyfriend No.22

on her little pink
glitzy mobile.

Guess my little girl
has(gulp) grown up!

so afraid of being overlooked
so completely misunderstood
finding the perfect way, finally
to make it all about her
eyes now looking and faces now smiling
she grins back uncomfortably, desperately
I need this. I want this. she silently convinces herself
in a leather miniskirt, so small
you can see it all
I'm not afraid. I need this. I want this.
hand on her knee
he sees me
hand on her thigh
this is what I wanted, right?
mouth on hers, held firmly there
by a man she'll never love...
just close your eyes,
it only has to be for one night.

I hate going
to clubs
where people just stand around
with beers in their hands,
laughing and sleezing
under the revolving eye
of the strobe sun.

I gotta dance on a girl.

I gotta feel her hips
underneath a velvet miniskirt;
her legs
all soft
and microscopically
prickly.

Two bites, just two and you're free
You did it yesterday
Tell me, why can't you eat
Is it because you're guilty
Or because you think you're fat now
Do you choose this freely

One more, and sit, explain
Tell me why it haunts you, why
Human need has become shame
Why is one meal such a fight
Is your brain stopping you or
Are you just wanting to die

Starving is not an art, or poetry
It is not about looking good
I don't want anyone to want me
I simply don't want to need
And now I find myself trapped
By the fear and fallacy of greed

Those bites meant internal war
One of attrition, locked inside
What the hell am I fighting for
Do I want to be rendered ugly
So unattractive I won't be
Hurt, attacked once more and seized

Do I want to repel, or is it now
To be thin and perfect in
My miniskirt and arched brows
Do I want control over my world
As I feel it, myself, slipping
I am becoming an insane girl

If I starve can I stay alive
Can I bear my form and figure
Convincing myself I can survive
On smoke, sugar, and caffeine
On air and diet coke without effect
Do I just want to not be seen

Finish that bite, just swallow
Are you afraid of feeling full
Afraid your humanity will show
Do you fear being seen as weak
Or needy, somehow sad
Is a bone cage what you seek

Don't purge, your body can't take
Another absconscion now
However much you have come to hate
Feeling your heart and eyes
Brighten, really function again
Are you a slave to lies

The thought of it makes me sick
I see the swelling, bubbling
Fat and I seek to destroy it
Or to destroy myself maybe
I can never be quite sure whether
Living or dying is meant for me

I don't know how to live
How to exist in this world when
I have nothing new to give
No originality dwells in my blood
My brain sings familiar tunes
My thoughts linger dark as mud

How could anyone need me
Such a vacuum of malcontent and
Self destruction, I'm never free
To love; I chose not to anymore
To breathe; it only hurts me
To laugh; I closed all those doors

I tore out my heart and pretended
I was Davy Jones, or a skeleton
I wished my life had ended
At all those times I tried to die
Now you ask if I can eat
How can I when I don't see why

Sit still, don't go expending it
That fuel is precious, please
I promise that you need it
I'll remind you through the weeks
You promised to try now
You said you'd learn to breathe

Well you need to learn to sit still
Feel full and not poisoned
By food, you should not feel ill
For finally treating your body right
I know it feels strange
But maybe you will sleep at night*

I hear your reasons, I really do
But I'm so worthless inside
This feels like hell, I tell you
The pain, the sweeping sickness
The endless need to be empty again
Have I descended into some madness

Have I lost my mind along the way
To cutting out my heart
How can I bear another day
So laden down with shame and guilt
I'm forever waiting, it seems
I'm waiting for the hole to be filled

There is a hole inside my heart
My soul a void, a nonentity
Blackness; how could I start
To conquer it when I can't see
When I am blind, I am trapped now
By this hatred and yearly deceit

But you've sat and listened
You know I am not being spiteful
I feel one day I'll be forgiven
By parents, by lovers and old friends
I'm not defiant, I'm so lost
I guess this isn't how my story ends.

He had only been home from the war for six days when she knocked on his door. He had been contemplating suicide. Sworn to secrecy by law and strange spooks with dead eyes, he couldn't tell her that. Whatever wounds he had suffered were his to bear alone and would be for many years. Still, his world was so turned upside down by the madness he had just escaped that her unexpected arrival seemed appropriate.

San Francisco, 1972; not the halcyon hippie days, but the lull shortly thereafter. It was a good place to be, safe and cheap. Much better than upland Laos with its piles of dead ***** and terrifying firefights. His apartment at Geary and Van Ness cost $275 dollars a month and felt like a sanctuary.

And there she stood, even more beautiful at nineteen than she had been at fifteen when they first made love on the grass in their hometown cemetery beside the Civil War memorial near the pile of cannon *****. You don't turn down a vision.

Come in, he said, and she didn't so much enter as flutter back into his scarred life. Her traveling companion, a nondescript hippie wannabee, stood beside her. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he disappeared.

That night, they made love like tigers. All the unspent lust accrued in battle erupted out of him and flowed into her. He wasn't gentle or considerate or skillful. When they ******, he smelled cordite, heard choppers beating and saw bloated corpses. It was like another deadly encounter in the bush, ferocious and abrupt. What she made of it, he couldn't tell, but she was more than game.

He had orders for Germany, but that was weeks away. They spent those weeks mostly in bed, as only the very young can manage, doing it every way they knew or could imagine. That tornado of desire took the edge off his rage and sense of betrayal. It may have saved his life.

Later, when he flew away, she stood and waved, astonishingly lovely in a miniskirt, her long chestnut hair flowing. She had no idea what she had done.

Things changed. It was decades before they really talked again. By then not even her name was the same, if she even really had one. Although their lives had long diverged, the connection remained, name or not. When he saw her, after all that time, all those bodies, all those endless miles, she was exactly the same girl who had knocked on his door those thirty-six years gone and he knew in that instant that nothing true ever really dies.
- mce

A black miniskirt and a ****** band shirt.
She's wearing the same thing as the last time I saw her in Missoula.
And Chicago before that.
Two wandering souls with the same flight pattern.
No matter where I went, that's where I was.
And so was she.
Chicago, Illinois.
Brattleboro, Vermont.
A rooftop in Philadelphia.
A graveyard in Iowa.
shes another ghost on this highway.
She bums a smoke,
We share a kiss,
And she's gone.

See how crazy
Our world has become,
Blood flowing
In between conversation of guns
Now, nothing is rosy
Righteousness has been dump.

Our unsafe kids are no longer scared
They live and wake amidst the dead
The women on trousers while the men on miniskirt
As they swiftly evoke a tragic end.

Oh, see the bloodish tears on the baby cheeks
As she watch her mother being roasted
Drier than a christmas chicken
A  common way commoners are now being busted
By their own fellow citizens.

Hmm! See how our leaders rule out of ideas
Giving the opposition room to criticize
Pointlessly earning us more fears,
The menace smiling in prowess
For the devil is leading them right
While we mourn and listen to our leaders cold words,
Praying in silence to God to dry our red eyes.

Oh God, a messiah is needed to abort our harsh realities
Someone like moses with a staff to path this red sea
Yes, just a man can help us to divorce our calamities
For a change nation with a repented mentality.

By Victor Ernest O.

the fact that there is a freedom of speech
makes it, all the more worthwhile to think,
i could not have accepted
this momentum to think when so much
is talked about...
            little things, idiosyncracies...
   how poetry is never about boxes,
paragraphs, compartments...
  you can clearly see the ledge, and how
words fall into place,
   without having to invoke orthodoxy
to state your point, in the modern day
Hades of thinking and not talking,
that's about the same time we wanted to
return to grunting, how we were really
ejected from the paradise of originating
from monkey, and we'd like to go back
to the weaker tongue, and a stronger
stomach with a diet of bamboo stalks
like a panda...
         because, eventually...
there's not much to be talked about...
        freedom of speech and fizzling out of
a care to think, to be prompted,
to be attendant, to be anything than a blah-blah...
akin to what prompted me to write this...
modern greek diacritical application
as written by germans from the 20th century...
that's why i conjured up the concept
of the φoνoς -
   you're bound to see that greek has something
satanic about it (there's a storm governing
england right now... so strong that a
przeciąg opened my door when i thought
this through)...
what, if not the trinity aesthetic of
encoding the serpent... Σ      σ          ς,
smoothing, or let's call that polishing the
rune like curves of zee...
                        and what chemistry comes
from z | s standing in the mirror,
cosine sine from... where would be put the
origin, left or right, and state that 0 was naturally
value-neutral?
   by the billions... and by inflation...
1,000,000 (one billion), stack them higher...
    cosine z? sure, beginning with 1,
and sine s, sure, beginning with 0...
   left, right, left, right....
           how many democrats are there
to stress an impulse for using their left hand to write?
and why was man born with a natural
norm bias to use his right hand to write?
           again... i don't believe that **** sapiens
actually exists...
    i believe that we are yet to enter that realm
having well established ourselves as **** schizoi...
  we're split, debatable, rather than debating...
         what with our gemini and the the celestial
months of zodiac, replacing our egos
with heretical christianity attending more concern
for identifiable genitals, gurus of the miniskirt
and ironed trousers... gurus of the most debasing
activity,
             was man ever to be so provocated
/ endowed with a libido without a *******?
                    same question was posed in egypt,
which is why we established a confrontatio
known as the old testament to prove such revisionists
would never care about anything else
but a bit of skin...
            truth is a pain you speak to a very tiny
group of people... and in the realm of conceptualising
the φoνoς you begin to ask...
why is modern greek so overladen with diacritical marks?
i mean, how can you complicate η (eta)
by adding diacritical marks to it?
when already there is the aesthetic comparative
appreciation of epsilon (ε)...
   must be something to do with the tetragrammaton,
and laughing, and the upper-case of eta (H)...
to say the least, copernicus without a telescope...
what's south in orbit around the earth?
a crazy ******* vector, that's what...
   what gave this "thing" / i'd like to call it poetry,
but then i abhor pristine surroundings
and a lack of dust, and a lack of dust
and regime of the world in need of it looking
doubly pretty... and approachable...
aphorism 221... revised as: "ambiguity" of ontology...
oν η oν... but believe me,
this german writes that statement,
and given i'm writing in english which has
naturally adopted a diacritical phobia (apart from
****** iota and j)...
   jasmine... why is the leftover of roman
so tiresome and so uncaring as to not have proper
names for individual letters?
      well... it does... but having the phonetic
alphabet is but a dim dull conversation over the phone,
and it's not original... tango?! taxi.
       india.... iota...
                      alpha... amazon...
   beta... bog...
                      but working purely from how oν η oν
has been noted.... how much can you really
complicate η, that you might have to apply
THREE DIACRITICAL MARKS?!
         that's really asking for a per se to exist,
concerning that use of "critique"...
                   and since the rule is that we apply
the telescope, the microscope,
we note an olympian's 100 metre sprint
  to the nearest .001 second...
         i am concerning myself with the "luxury"
of language also showing those few, very rare
and otherwise pesky details...
   they just fall into your hands,
and as the devil said when god said:
they will toil by the sweat of their brows....
   my people, artists, they'll toil
by the sweat of their armpits: lazy hands, see?
the nearest thing to describing is by
                  doing a mime spectacle;
in native tongue: o'zór na migi....
    then again, the very existence of orthography
is a great place to begin bewilderment...
given that chance to be given an orthographic
question, can't really make you bothered
about metaphysics...
  orthography alone suffices...
   obviously with some ***** and a cigarette or two...
modern english and :) and l.o.l.,
    and then back into the way i noted
a noun o'zór, what's that ' doing in there?
ah, the upside-down comma, a bit like
a colon (:) and then the heresy of writing in italics...
well... if too lazy to write in bold...
  o'zór... oh-zoor... but the first omicron is
piquant... sharp... a bit of lemon juice on a oyster...
the ó is standard for the rule of orthography
against the parabola of u...
but i'm still working on the syllable cutting
up of words... well... it's called an ozór for a reason:
the edible part of the cow that's frowned upon
in western society, with Silesian poached dough:
the cow's tongue... one of the most tender pieces of
flesh known to man... in a horseradish sauce, mmm...
yum.

Inhale
One eye opens
Pick yourself up
Legs swing sideways
The singer hits a high note
Hit the snooze button

Grab a toothbrush
Pick the paste
Rinse and repeat
Smile
Floss
Rinse and repeat
Dry your face

Face wash - $6: to brighten your complexion
Banish oil from your sleeping pores
Concealer and Foundation - $24
A fresh face can open many doors




Mascara, Eyes, and Brows
12
7
5
Bat them nice and pretty
How happy to be alive

In this day and age
You want the spotlight?
They give you backstage
Point your attention to the nearest exits
As the audience laughs at those
Who waste and mar your presence

In the eye of the storm
For every Pakistani baby that is born
The chances of their mother to still be breathing
Are low to none
Accompanied with every passing minute for a female child
Who will never be fully grown

But if by some chance she does survive
She will never know, or make, or expect
To be treated with as much respect as the guys
And knowledge will be limited by money
And white people who trade books for religious pledges different than her own

She moves and tries with each sun and moon
She finds herself inside a room
A glowing screen and a telephone
In a small moment of peace she tries to remember what her home looks li….
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you repeat that please, I can’t understand your accent?”

So when she hangs up in a huff
And turns around to face her lovely husband
And 3 beautiful kids
She opens her mouth to complain about the foreigner
Only to hear that he has had enough
And as the breakfast she made for them at 5 o’clock in the morning
Slips off his plate and onto the floor
She reminds herself
“Yes, I know. This is life. This is love.”

And she will not question
And she will not fight
Because they preach you all of your rights
And since she was taught to read and write
She should at least remember some of them
Right?

No.
For as a wee girl sitting in a corner
With bruises on her wrists, her thighs, and ego
Her first thought was not law, but
“why?”

Why do we cling to a culture of corruption and confusion?
In this time of hypocrisy and delusion
Which is older than the words themselves
But when written together
Become every woman’s personal brand of hell?

Because they tell you who you are and where you’re from
Plus, where you’ve been and whom you’ve known matter
So choose carefully and don’t walk around in a miniskirt
In the middle of the night
You ****

With feminine modesty
Pink is the color of choice
Especially in the hearts of those young boys
Who wanted nothing but to please their fathers
Even if they asked for an easy bake oven
And their mother shook her head as he pleaded for a toy
Clearly not made for a young boy

It’s hard to look into the talking screen
And tune out only parts you want to hear
Without fueling the colossus of a machine
That has been raising us like lambs for slaughter
But I am not just a father’s daughter
And for every voice that is silenced in fear, in anger and in plight
Ours will echo that much more loudly in the night

Put down your bag
Set the alarm
Close your eyes
Exhale

IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE

Yawns
into my morning

wearing only my
Edvard Munch’s THE SCREAM

Tee-shirt
(so that’s where it’s gone)

which is a mere
miniskirt on her

scratching a well tanned
behind.

All smeared mascara
all Cleopatra eyes

all mad crazy hair
mad as a bag of spiders

dancing
(sleepily to)

Amen Corner
on the summer radio.

Takes my toast
from my poised hand

takes a bite
crunchily...noisily

then puts it back
in exactly the same position.

Pats me
on my head

“Mmmmmm.... thanks Dad! ”

“Stolen toast is always
twice as nice! ”

Sings softly
swaying to herself

“If Paradise is half
as nice

“As the Heaven that you take me
to...”

(Ooops...slops
spills her orange juice)

“...who needs Paradise? ”

“I’d rather...have you! ”

Then suddenly excitedly
talking to boyfriend No.22

on her little pink
glitzy mobile.

Guess my little girl
has(gulp) grown up!

In the beginning, she was nothing, an it to everyone. Wasn’t worth insulting or complimenting. Black hair. Black Clothes. Black eyes. Black everything. But when she noticed im, she also noticed herself. She never had a care about herself before, and now look at her, the cute girl with pink and a tingling personality and flame. At first, it was only small changes. Switch out black combat boots for black converses. Start wearing less black eyeliner, added some dangling earrings. No one noticed yet. She tried harder. Took off her dog collar and choker. Replaced it with something a normal girl would wear, a heart necklace. A few glances tossed carelessly, lazily her way. Black pants to a pink miniskirt. Outright stares this time. Bangs cut and dye her hair blond. Rumors started, gossip exchanged like the racing pulse in her wrist. She knew she was changing, but she craved the attention; for once people could see how great she was underneath everything; they would give her a chance when she changed her appearance to their liking. She swiped on sparkly lip-gloss and tossed her band shirts for spaghetti straps, midriffs, and **** bras to show off. She threw the last of her away and he finally noticed, once she changed everything.
“Hey, babe. I never noticed you before. Are you a new student?” he asked with an unmistakable hidden meaning and looked her up and down with a greedy look. He slipped his hand over her **** and grabbed it. She backed away slowly, like he was an animal, which he was. He stepped closer. She was at a wall. He hastily reached his hand out to her ****; she could feel his rapid raspy breath on hers right before he shoved his tongue in her mouth, feeling her up. She gasped, thinking isn’t this what she wanted? She blinked and punched him in the nose.
“Ow! What the **** was that for *****?!” he yelled at her all while clutching his nose. She slowly began to walk away backwards, watching him. People around her barely noticed her dismay, but those who did did nothing to help her. They whispered, some even yelled or bluntly said things, not hiding their harsh venom words.
“******* *****.”
“*****.”
“Such a total ****. I knew it all along.”
“I heard she’s ******* the whole football team.”
“She just came and already she’s sexing Matthew up?”
“Who does this ***** think she is going around practically naked trying to ***** everyone right then and there?”
She kept backing away as their words surrounded her and crowded her and finally drowned her.

She didn’t come back to school until two weeks later. She arrived in black to her own funeral. Everyone sneered and leered at her. Rumors were spread; biting words were thrown like confetti. Each little thing took a chunk of her away. Matthew didn’t even recognize her.
She was gone the next day.
No one cared.
The corpse lay left behind to rot in the small apartment.

It was weeks later when neighbors began to complain about a strange smell coming from the apartment did the police come. By now it was too late. Her corpse was a reminder to those that pain will always come and find you no matter what.

!!!

After her actual funeral that no one who actually genuinely cared about her attended, a multitude of people left to go home.  Some were only trying to clear their guilt for not helping her. Others just wanted everyone else to think they cared when really they didn’t give a ****. Death tends to bring the fakers out. In the end, still no one actually, really cared about her. No one looked through her diary to see why she hung herself, no one remembered.
After a week, it was old news, and she was forgotten again.

!!!

So you see? It’s an endless cycle. Things maybe good right now, but those who are willing to gamble their current state for a better state usually end up worse. They are hurt and are never the same again.

IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE

Yawns
into my morning

wearing only my
Edvard Munch’s THE SCREAM

Tee-shirt
(so that’s where it’s gone)

which is a mere
miniskirt on her

scratching a well tanned
behind.

All smeared mascara
all Cleopatra eyes
all mad crazy hair
mad as a bag of spiders

dancing
(sleepily to)

Amen Corner
on the summer radio.

Takes my toast
from my poised hand

takes a bite
crunchily...noisily

then puts it back
in exactly the same position.

Pats me
on my head

“Mmmmm.... thanks Dad! ”

“Stolen toast is always
twice as nice! ”

Sings softly
swaying to herself

“If Paradise is half
as nice

“As the Heaven that you take me
to...”

(Ooops...slops
spills her orange juice)

“...who needs Paradise? ”
“I’d rather..have you! ”

Then suddenly excitedly
talking to boyfriend No.22

on her little pink
glitzy mobile.

Guess my little girl
has(gulp) grown up!