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Jo King Mar 8
I have stomach aches
Caused from the hole deep within me
Where the butterflies ate away at the flesh that I was
You see butterflies are nasty little things
They like to come when you want…to come.
For that special someone
But I have butterflies for people that don’t know I do.
So I tried to fill the hole with honey
With vanilla
With anything that I could get my sticky fingers on.
The only thing my fingers got on was me
And then they got me off
Because I have this hole
This deep burning hole that gives me stomach aches
That I want to fill with peaches
With kiwi
With pomegranates
Sometimes the stomach aches come in the night
When I lay there in my peach colored sheets
Pulling at an old band tee shirt until it comes off
And I become a writhing mess in the witching hours
But sometimes my stomach aches for the boy that wears sweaters
It twist and turn and the hole will scream from my abdomen
“Give me”
I want to kiss his lips
I want to stain his sheets with my ***
But then the ache goes away
I’ll get an ache for the arrogant and snarky boy
When he sits there with long, admirable fingers
I want him to dig them into me
And sometimes my stomach aches for me
It aches for the day that I can completely satisfy myself
In every aspect a human ever could
Written on February 27, 2018
Arianna Nov 14
"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
          They inquire.

"Not I, not I!"
          Though many aspire.

Shall we?
Shall she?
Away to the woods?

Ah, to the woods!
To the woods we'll away,
To the woods, she...

Pale
          Like the moon that resided at her birth,
          Dappled between black hair and eyes;
          Small coral lips the sole color
          That dares blush upon her face.

"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
They inquire,
But this time:

          No answer.

Though many still aspire.

Sneakers changed for boots,
Nice skirts for petticoats patched and worn.

Now, to the woods!
To the woods...

And away!

We shall,
She shall...

          Backpack slung 'cross 'er shoulders,
          Pipe puffin',
          Knife gleamin' out 'er pocket,
          Trippin' over branches
          Through the wild
          Wild fern jungle
          Far west o' the kingdom
          Corrupted
          By lightwaves in the looking glass ---

                       " HA! Well now, I'll pour ya a glass!"

To the woods!

To the west!

To the woods,

And away...

         Snow White
Her name, in those days,

Sullied now

With distilled disillusionment
And the warmth of foliage fair,
          The fairest
          In all the green land.

... Snow White?

More like "Off-White"!

Ayayay....

White Snow?
White Wolf?
Snow White Wolf?

Or just a no-name,
Little No-Name-At-All?

No-Name, indeed,
Self-proclaimed:

          Outlaw,
               Knife-slingin'
                    Sharpshooter of prose,
                         Green as the trees
                    And red as the rose.

City girl gone vagabond,
A camp one day she stumbled on:
Seven bandits therein,
Drinking whiskey round the fire.

Seven bandits,
Brigands though they be,
Not devoid of courtesy,
And each in turn presents his name:

          Monday
               Tuesday
                    Wednesday
                         Thursday
                    Friday
               Saturday
          Sunday

Seven bandits a-huntin'
Neither silver nor gold,
But greedy for days,
For the curious wealth of Time,
In its endless abundance
And simultaneous lack, seemingly endless.

One by one,
They pluck the days,
Bright and shining, golden
Out the velvet-lined pockets
Of the Abyss,

Stashing them away
Amongst the timelessness of the forest
And its foliage fair
          The fairest, fairest
          In all the green land.

Rich in hours
For thinking,
          (Rethinking)
For supposing
          (Reposing)
Upon the Earth
In its way,
Prosperous in time to spare
For living
Stripped bare,
          (Survival minimum)

Thus the days passed mortal kingdoms by,
While for these merry eight,
The sun and moon merely switch places
In the sky,
Two-stepping
Measureless
Against the rhythm of the "hours".

And so they lived
Happily
In an ever-after
Beyond
The borders of "forever-after",
Free from the times' a-changin'.

But along there came
At some last,
While the seven bandits were gone away,
A peddler woman,

          Strange and bent
          Beneath a distant burden of ages
          And dead weight
          Of days lost

And on 'er arm there swung
A wicker basket
Flowing over with pomegranates.

"You there, No-Name!"
She calls out to the girl,
An' our gypsy lass strides o'er.

"Look here, lass, at me basket:
The fruit I bring is ripe and red
As youth and summer,
Fresh as the pangs of first love.
I'll sell it ye fer but a pence,
If you would like to try a bite.
How d' ye answer, me hearty?"

No-Name hesitates,
But the ancient mortal
Places the fruit
In our rosy maid's hands.

With reluctance,
With foreboding,
At this stranger-of-the-world,
The raggle-taggle Sans Nom peels back
The crimson flesh,

Plucks

But one

Single

Seed and,

Holding it a moment between her fingers...

Swallows it...

          Falls

                    To the earth.

Aye, down she goes, fair Anonymous:

Pomegranate
Bitter nectar
Drips from her lips,
Stains her rosy fingertips
          Dark as blood.

There she lays,
Our vanquished heroine,
Upon the forest's ageless floor:

          "Self-proclaimed
               Outlaw:
                         Ramblin',
                         Knife-slingin'
                         Sharpshooter of prose,
                                   Green as the forest,
                                   And red as the rose"

She was,
Once upon a time,

She was...

Removed
From realities of decay and paper preoccupations,
Immersed
In pure being of the world

In the world

Of itself,

Untouched
By probing antennae

          Cunning
          Curious
          Conniving­
                    ... Conscious and corrupt...
          
At once poisoned
And liberated
By strange ivies
Of realization,

Creeping:

          Some tainted
          With presumptions of enlightenment,
                    Others with false perceptions
                    Of possibilities for perfection, and
                              Still others, by fear alone.

Thus, with one bite
It bites,
Ferocious,
The bleeding rot
Of ineluctable years
In a luscious guise
Of bittersweet temptation.

Now, though, the question
In the body of our heroine:

          "Does it bestow
           A monstrous kiss of death,
           Or,
           In moving blood to flow,
           Resurrect?"

Sun and moon circle round,
And around;
Under darkness
The bandits return
To find...

               Well...

                         You know.

And for all the days in their possession,
They could not count
The moments in eternity
Of which their nameless friend
Could never now partake:

          Only one interminable
          Swinging back-and-forth
          Of the cosmic pendulum
          Between light and dark,
          Dark and light.

Loneliness and loss evade increments of quantification,
And for every answer, the questions resound infinitely.

No-Name, No-Name,
Sprawled upon the forest floor:

           Sun,
                    Moon,
                                 Leaf-Fall,
                                                   Snow....

                                                      ­         White.

Snowfall:
          Seven bandits travel
          To the south.

                                                To the south!

                                                To the south!

                                          Through the woods...

                                                   And away!

          And Time moves with them.

Still, there she lies,
Slowly melting,

          Beneath the snow
          Once her name,

Becoming one with the black earth
Now cold
Guarding the warmth
Of dormant life.

Under the caress of snow,
And between the shades,
A metamorphosis:
Her form has changed,
As all must.

          The snowflakes upon her skin
          Turn to a silky pelt of white,
          The shadows to dark spots,
          Her hands and feet to silent paws,
          The coral of their soles
          Now the only color to bloom upon her.
          Antlers now adorn her skull
          And a feathery tail sweeps out behind her body,
          Long, silver, leopard-speckled,
          With the blurry kisses of a thousand mortalities .

The eyes alone remain unchanged.

          Leaf brown, flecked with amber green,
          Earth in Autumn,
          Ringed with grey skies
          And the ghost of violets.

Changed thus:
          Risen,
And thus:
          Unchanged.

Rather:
          Soul realized.


How this came to pass,
No one can know.

The shock of life
Into dead connection
                         ⸺ A necessary interjection! ⸺
Catalyzing the detection
Of a heartbeat yet attuned
To potentialities for affection,
For good, in-a-world
Existing minute by the minute.
Inspired by the fairytale (albeit loosely), sleep deprivation, a bottle of wine, personal experience to some extent, and two random country songs. My mind ran away with this one, hence the length... D: Ah well. And yes, she transforms into a reindeer-antlered snow leopard at the end.

"In Time" by Mark Collie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaHUtylpiWA

Also, "Straw In The Wind" by The Steel Woods.
He called my poem
Wise and tropical
The heat of the Caribbean:

The tongue of the goddess
Years of eating so much
Fishcakes lace with Guinea Pepper Seeds
****** beer and mauby bark drink
Top with lemonade and pomegranates
remains in my blood stream:

When I dream, I dream
and react like a chosen prophets
So, I spread my words like a modern Moses

Message in my poems, are
Like ashes, they can’t be bottle
They have to be scattered
Throughout the internet,
Around the globe: global feeds,
Depending on the poet’s pen
The archives is not the place for them to be stored

I once saw my mother sob
As she kneel in the sugar cane field
The tears was for her children future,
These days I sob because of a bad dream
Our American dream is no longer valid,
a beacon of hope without a definition
for our future:

Tupac saw the comings
In his dreams,
Suddenly, the silencer
Silence him,

Martin Luther king, had a dream
A silencer silent him
Apparently, John Lennon was getting closer to the truth
he too was silent

He called my poems
Wise and tropical,
I think of them as written transmission:
stopdoopy Nov 30
Eat
1 2 3
Seeds from fruit trees

Love
I've missed you
My cherished one

Soon
You will be
With us again

Cold
Is the earth
Beneath soft snow

But
Way down here
The embers glow

Warm
Are we, beloved
Feelings freely flowing

Waves
Crashing into rocks
Passionate and fierce

Eat
4 5 6
Cross the river Styx
. . . . . .

— The End —