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howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Got Guanxi Nov 2015
in between my insecurities

I can’t be found sometimes,
dumbfounded by my surroundings.
hiding,
in between my
insecurities.

i’ve been captured in the moment,
scared to say another word,
caught ,
in between my
insecurities

I got lost within the essence,
talking nonsensical thoughts,
lying inside,
in between my
insecurities.

I learnt my lesson swiftly,
teenage years, lunchbox idioms ,
sandwiched,
in between my
insecurities.
I think i'll revisit this at some point...
Styles Mar 2018
He watched pleasure enter her eyes
Sensations of pleasure leaving her mesmerized
Sweet screams, wet dreams, message disguised
Moans escape as bodies magnetized
his hands glued to her thighs
as she sighs
Fingers soaked in wet; juicy juices drip
tongue eclipsing glistening lip; slow licks
Her body, his vessel; selfish
Serving each other relentless
Breathes escaping each other
Tangled together, bodies ravished
Every morsel of one another sandwiched
Finger, Licking, Good.
~Delicious~
Alan S Bailey Aug 2016
What is this bizarre strange artificial magic that

Surrounds us in 3D neon colors man-made

Amidst this dream theory of some sort

Of tasty goods that await me (not bait)

Smashed in between two slabs of meat

That are thick hands which are said hold the

Way to get all we could want or need

This absolute promise that it's all worth it

Being placed before me only just to see

I hold my sandwiched slice of meat

With cheese and pickles high

And shout for joy that it's mine to eat!
So take a seat...!

Hehe, and it rhymes, too
:P

I'm sorry it disagrees with tele-vangicals and religious cultists. Will delete immediately. I promise. Sorry to harm ****** eyes with my trash!
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the  
pavement blur.

Don't ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.

In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop's on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.
ON YOUR LEFT.
YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT.
Rerouting...

the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
checkmark.
Nike said so.

Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn
#pleasegetmemoreviews

How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you're a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I'll get you publicity.

#fire
#ice
#rain
What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.

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

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

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

I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
This poem was inspired by and dedicated to Eve Ensler and her book 'I am an Emotional Creature' which expresses girlhood in relation to men and women as something which we are all encouraged to surpress.  This is a snippet of my girlishness - the girl I was, am and will always be.
Written 2011
PairedCastle Nov 2017
November 1 2017
22:23

He listens to the songs that are once mine
He listens to the songs as if they are his
He remembers her as the songs play
He listens to the songs just how they are here to stay
The songs are not meant to be his
The songs are somebody else's and in between
The songs are not made for his benefit
The songs are meant to express the writer's feelings
Two weeks has almost passed
He remembers how they talked in the past
He listens to the same songs
The songs he came to like because of her
He listens to the same songs without even thinking of her
He now does not associate the songs to anyone, especially, her
He now offers the same songs to the new person he knows
She is everything... his dreams, his love, his all
He now thinks of this new person every time the same songs play
This new person, she came to like the songs he makes her listen to everyday
The same songs make him think of his former love, and his present

But never will he associate the same songs to the girl that was sandwiched between his former love and his present

Everything crumbles, he falls, he stumbles
He forgets, recovers, loves again
Ah! That is life talking to him, again and again

He ends the day... listening to the songs he came to like because of the girl that was sandwiched between his former love and the present

Never will he think of this girl. Never will he fall, stumble and crumble because of this girl.

He finally recovers.
and the girl sandwiched between his former love and the present is glad that he recovers.
Background Music: Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers - The Waiting
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Destiny Odeh Sep 2015
Osas, there's a certain darkness in me. I can't explain it, but I don't curse the darkness, because it's where we found each other. After I found you, I stopped searching for rainbows in the far reaches of the sky, you were my sunshine. You cast away my troubles and wrestled my demons. You were the missing piece that finally made me feel whole. That’s funny, because you always said that being whole is overrated, it's the holes that make us beautiful. You always made me feel beautiful. Even though the beautiful moments we once had are slowly fading, turning from vivid to grey. I can still feel your palm, gentle on my blushing cheek, stroking my hair backwards, tucking every curly strand behind my ears. The same ears you'd whisper a bouquet of wonderful words into. We were sweet together once.

You see, I wasn’t always a hot-tempered ****** like you’d often call me. I hated that word, “******”. No! I am not a ******, I am not hot-tempered, I am not viscous lava, I am not fire. I am the phoenix that rose out of the flames you lit. The same fire you came running into, but while trying to save me, you forgot to save yourself.

You were the erupting volcano. You were vicious and violent. You were a deadly collection of everything vile. You were hot and cold, you were yes and no. Did you even love me at all? I guess I will never truly know.

Ok, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I wrote that last paragraph. I know you loved me dearly. I'm only scraping for a reason to hate you; to cleanse my conscience. I feel so stupid right now. I can't stop crying. I can't stop thinking about that night. The error of my deed still haunts me. The least I can do is to keep writing you back to life, writing back into my arms.

I got 12 years; I'll be out of here just in time for menopause. I never cared much about having unruly, noisy, silly little babies running riot, leaving a trail of ****, puke and toy cars lying around. But I cared about you. I still care about you deeply Osas.

We were of the same form, you and I. Passionately understanding each other's darkness. You understood me perfectly. Better than all the others before you. You knew how fragile my heart and mind was, yet you broke both. Why? I was crazy in love with you, you took away the love and left me plain crazy.

I hate the drugs they give me here, it numbs my mind and takes away the pain, but why will I want that to go away, when the pain is all I have left of us? I feel so hollow inside, I’m an emotionless wreck now. I have lost myself! Maybe if I dig deeper, I'd discover an avalanche of emotions still buried inside me. Sandwiched between my ice-cold heart and the poisonous blood coursing through my veins. The same veins I want to expose to the spirits in the wind, and as my warm blood pours on this cold concrete like leaves on a forest floor, I’d finally be at peace. I hope to find peace in death, for death is not a dark abyss, but a ladder to light - an ascension to another realm. And in that realm I hope to find you, my darling, to explain to you why I did it. Why I pushed you off the balcony.

I’m sorry, but I couldn't look you in the face anymore. You disgusted me! I saw you with her in the breakroom at the office party. Yes! I saw you on your knees with your face in between her thighs! Even though you claimed she seduced you, I still saw you! I can't get that horrid image out of my head. It was in that moment I knew I couldn't live another day hearing you tell me another lie.

I got a blade today, from a lady in the shower, after I let her touch me in all the right places, still it felt so wrong. You have no idea how hard it is to find even the simplest sharp object in here. Random body cavity searches, routine cell shakedowns, constant reminders that I have and I am nothing. At least she was gentle when she slid her fingers inside me. Aunty Julianna was never gentle whenever she touched me in the bathroom stall at church camp.

I’ve truly lost myself, Osas. Nothing, and no one, can make me whole again. I’m covered in holes now and I don’t feel beautiful anymore. I feel bitter, sad and shattered. Even mirrors no longer lie to me. I see myself for what I am now - a monster.

"I have to do this, this is the only way." I calmly reassure myself, while clutching the rusty blade and pressing its jagged edge against my deathly pale skin.

"Calm down Adesuwa, you’re having an episode again." A voice echoed from the corner of my dark cell. Your voice. But still I didn’t believe.

"Is that you Osas?" I whispered. "Have you come to forgive me or have you come for retribution?"

"Here's your dinner." said the prison guard, before spotting the blade and sounding the alarm. I was on my belly before I could say a word, my arm bent behind me, my fingers pried open... my ladder gone.

Another day. I guess I’ll die another day.
Following the long winding road with the
Dark clouds and lightning grabbing at our heels,
Gravel kicking up dust in the rearview,
We flew like sparrows in the spring wind.
Johnny Cash singing throughout the speakers;
Tunes of walking lines and rings of fire.
The clearing was just ahead, sandwiched in
Between tall evergreen trees with acorns
Where small sparrows wait for a worm dinner.
for my creative writing class
Sandwiched
Between:
Birth and death
Good and evil
Love and hatred
Courage and cowardice
Friends and foes
Optimism and pessimism
Bossism and insubordination
War and peace
Sun and rain
Spring and summer
Devil and divine
Heart and soul
Heaven and hell
Origin and horizon
What if and what not?
Life is synonymous with antonyms.
Pearson Bolt Sep 2015
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony

the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows

****
*****
*****

all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion

once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ******* had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women

if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support

don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty

riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist

it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
****-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance

either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies  
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete

in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like

****
*****
*****

and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term

feminist
Samir Oct 2012
But soft, what flatulence through yonder rancid window breaks.  If it is the east, well then I’m heading west.
I wish I could recite this and I wouldn’t be talking about my life, but life is fair… just not for me. So I dive right in unfortunately.  And I bask and I bask and I bask.  Hold on, wait, please allow me to retract, as this occurs numerously within occupation.  I firstly divide the **** cheeks, as if Moses dividing the seas.  Like Jesus I break bread… anyways… my life is literally spent with my nose sandwiched between numerous people’s backsides. This brings me to my next point… I love my job… because I love people.  My favorites are obese people because they suffocate me and for a brief moment I am without consciousness and have not a clue of my reality.  The people I do it for the most though are the unstable people, you know?... the people with digestive problems that are so unstable they sometimes slip and instead of their body gas I am left with a face that looks like a diarrhea toilet.  I am a poet though and therefore I hold onto the only significant job related poem that I’ve seen on our restroom walls… “Here I sit lonely hearted, came to **** but only farted.”
JM Romig Jun 2013
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*

The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ******* sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.

The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized  
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.

No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.

The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
An unforgettable
Memory to cherish
A glimmer of hope
To relish
Renders life,sandwiched
In between,
A sumptuous dish!
Life becomes nice if we have memory to cherish in our old days and if have hope that keeps us going!
Melanie Apr 2014
Hand softly against your cheek.
Lips pressed to your ear.
The whisper drifts into your consciousness, almost inaudible.
It's a request. A wish. A desire. A quench for passion.
The words tickle your canal as they enter.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall.
The speaker does not own these words but rather they own you.
Captivating, filled with desire, a yearning, wanting more.
As they trickle in, you process the slivering snakelike progression of words that just met your ear.
"Kiss me."
The very word "kiss" can set you on fire.
There's something about the word.
The way it's sharp and bold in the beginning...
Yet...electrifying at the end.
It is drawn out, poetic, tongue tying.
If you close your eyes, you can almost envision getting lost in the letters.
First, there's the K.
That crisp, clean K that is proud yet does not boast.
That K cuts like a knife, no not a knife, a kite, it cuts like a kite, soaring high into the sky. Never planning on coming down.
Then, you've got the I.
It stands tall but it's shy and sandwiched in the middle.
It cowers from the past and even more fearful of what is to come.
It is elusive, slightly ****, coy, perhaps even unattainable.
Then you've got the electrifying, alliterative "ss."
Almost as if you're not ready for the word to end, holding, dare I say, clinging onto those last precious letters, dragging out every last sound.
Every last breath has come to this.
"Kiss."
It comes and then goes before you can say it.
Fearful of missing it.
You hang onto that "S" for it is the last thing that ties you to this.
Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
Once you've said it, never stop saying it.
Kiss Kiss Kiss.
All good things, though, must go. Then the time comes to let it be.
So then you say,"Kiss me."
nic Aug 2012
i am leather bound
to last night's conversation.

while thumb thick
in good intentions,
i am beginning to think                      
you never knew me
as much as you
think you did.

dear, tell me
what has hooked
your jaws into spouting out
these pig tailed assumptions
of me?

you see, i've never been
quite as crisp tide white
as they made me out to be.
always a little fade to my denim.
didn't you know
some stains
can't be washed off?

some fingerprints
can't be dusted
or steamed out in the dew
of a 4 am shower.
and sunday knows
i've tried.

and still try to make it
plainly clear that i left
my mother's baby
somewhere between the arms
of brooklyn.

left her, all koolaid stained
tongues tied to the push pop
fantasies i'd held until
i was about kush high
to a grasshopper.

abandoned her
pb and j sandwiched in an alley
with a trash bag
criss cross applesauce
knotted around her lovely
to keep her just
as warm and naive
as she never had been.

had you ever noticed
the gauche in her grin
wasn't nearly as golden
as it should've been?
and her paperback bone
seemed to fold
a tad too easily.

of coarse
spines aren't meant to
break like that
but they do.

divorce and dysfunction
has taught us that
it all falls down
someday so don't
weep for the jericho
in my bones
but at least acknowledge
that its there;
that there are bruises
too light to be convincing
but they still ache
when you stroke them right.

that some nights the pains
of resurrection memories
out shine those
of the crucifixion.

certain skins must be shed
when your convictions
leave you broken
and the stars you sin beneath
begin to gossip
about your shadow.

and your shadow
finds its way
onto the floor of living room
while it watches you
let yourself be made
into one of the victims
you write poetry for.

when you're trying to bottle
God and grandeur
into the barrel
of the gloc your mother
grabbed in anticipation
of spilling herself
in the wind
when the wednesday's
got too lonely.

listen
stop trying to card me
before accepting
my truths.
i've traveled too
far for ****** to not
assume i've been
in the dark before.

drop my shell
and see the inside
mash called me
has been spilled
and shattered
and reassembled
and shattered
and scattered
and reassembled
and splattered
and bent
more ways
than i can yoga
position myself in.

when you asked me
how could a 17 year old
know the pain of this world
i wanted to tell you
to roll up you sleeves
and unzip your pride.

yes i am 17
but i know everything happens
for a reason and i know
being broken makes
you grateful of the
pieces that weren't obliterated.

i know you can't be
flexible without stretching
and i know how it
feels to be stretched
between 4 states
two parents
and 1 divorce signee.

i know what a blanket does
for someone afraid
of the shadows
and i know you can't
have shadows without light.

i know that florida fern leaves
are consistently stormed on
and never curse clouds for it.

i know i am beautiful
and i know how many
days it took me to find out.

i know i am made of those days
and those days
were born of a maker.

i know my mine
met and got married
and made me and my sisters
and mistakes and i know
they paid for them
in cash and criticism.

i know my father is a good man
and i know good men
lie awake at 4 in the morning
making plans to fix things.

i know my mother loves to laugh
and i know laughter
is the easiest way for her
to cough up her worries.

i know she almost drowned
on dry land before
and i know she was one of
the best swimmers in my family.

i know i am still learning
but i've learned
we know a lot less                            
than we realize
and feel a lot more
than we recognize.
a draft
Juliana Jan 2013
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.

Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.

Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.

Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.

You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
http://poemsaboutpoetry.blogspot.ca/
Emily Pancoast Oct 2012
Dining Hall

The day that Darwin dies
you call me at lunch
surrounded by raucous boys
who would ridicule your tears

Milk

You’re downing a glass
as I sip my wine

Separated by years
and words you don’t know

Our preference in beverage
is the space between us


The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack

Lullaby redhead croons my fingers bend three at a time choking out two-syllable death trap.

Constellating

Sandwiched between
fresh books
spines not yet cracked

Secretive soulmates
sharing espresso-scented
pecks on strawberry lips

Hush Hush

Hands that aren’t yours
hold back my hair
dampened
tears shed
over words you threw
shattering
showering me with shards
of the way you once felt


Day Long Marriage

Air-conditioned summers
bare skin on leather couches
your hand resting
on blue ruffled *******


Happy New Year

Crouching
behind closet doors

your voice
at once comfort and affront

I’ll forget the words you say
still clutching my phone
wishing it was you


The Other Emily**

Purest form of you and me
Benadryl-induced delusions
refusing sleep
exhausted
warm and doe-eyed
in the glow of your fondness
Pedro Tejada Feb 2012
My voice is nestled within a river
of transitions, positioned
in endless sets of pre- and post-
parentheses. Pre-revolutionary,
post-Missing Link. Post-postmodern,
pre-postmodern revival.

I sit in a somersaulting purgatory
sandwiched between evocation
and paralysis.

My hatred is exhausted, shoulders
hunched over a guillotine,
cursing with its tongue sprawled
dead and dry at an imaginary hunter,
a mass of bones clumped
under the rug I keep pulling
from my own two feet.

Will you hack through this cocoon?

Have you got the muscle
and the patience?

Nevermind that bedtime story.

There must be some wounds
of yours, those placed beyond
the verbal tanline, that need
immediate bandaging.

*Can I get you anything?
bobby burns Dec 2012
how i forget to cherish
these little moments
of our togetherness;
making an early meal
of sauteed vegetables
and eggs, "froached"
like i used to call them
when i was your little
chef and would bring
you breakfast on
special occasions,
and sometimes on
sundays, just because
it was sunday and dad
didn't have to leave
for work long before
the crack of dawn
even set its alarm.

we'd all sit in bed
together, squished
into sharing a cozy
comfort, sandwiched
between you two
and my old buddy
gladly the bear who
still sits on your bed
upstairs in his pink-
and-green striped
shirt.

but then i guess
somewhere along
the way i grew up;
the move happened--
i didn't visit gladly
anymore, or you
for that matter.

today you asked
me to get the big
jar -- the carnation
                      (top)
jar, from the
shelf of the kitchen
   cabinet while i
    explained my
oddly convoluted
thought process,
and we talked
about how my
granddad danced
you down the aisle
to django on a whim
of a kooky family friend,
and how i finally
realized how little
i actually know of you--
but that's normal.

i might be growing
up now, and i
might not visit
that little bear
anymore, but
what i never
really told you,
or anyone,
is that i have
my own now,
a blue one who
used to be called
blueberry, renamed
as joseph stalin,
because i'm a
big boy now,
and my sense
of humor dried
out long ago.

i may not be
your little chef
anymore, but
i can still make
you breakfast,
and bring it
to your bed on
sundays, and
sit with gladly,
and quietly chat
until late morning
like we used to
(never) do.
Pedro Tejada May 2014
Nails the length of javelins click on countertop
with the speed of a coked-up woodpecker
as this goddess of the night with bullets
of caked foundation sweating from her forehead
awaits her fifth free Long Island of the night.

Safe to say, she's a little high maintenance,
like all treasured centerpieces
of a local museum deserve to be.

She is your generation's Mona Lisa, trust.
Her sneezes will be dissected for coding.
Like the rust on buried Babylonian armor,
she lives sandwiched between myth and reality.

A Frankenstein of queer iconography,
door-knocker earrings designed by Adrian.

Stilts for heels clack on blinking dancefloor,
balancing a hermaphroditic echo
that charges through hieroglyphic binaries
with a four-on-the-floor precision.
I've recently started pursuing drag as an art form, and the queen's name is Goldyn Dylicious, as indicated in the title. This is basically just a lil thesis that lets you all get to know her. Still a work in progress :)
"Bailey Newman Schollmeyer",
The uneven script on my type-writer manufactured birth certificate reads.
"What kind of name is Newman?"
...The middle-agers asks as they study me, they're not a fan.
I roll my eyes and see my purple hair,
My nose hoop, my gauges..oh they care.
How wonderfully dull at this moment it must be,
To be a blonde and preppy, 'Nicole' or 'Anne Marie'

"I'm not sure", I reply
looking over their shoulder with a worn out sigh.
"Oh" they say, with their Greek princesses sandwiched between first and last,
I am obviously uninteresting compared to the way I look and low in the American name caste.
But I don't care,
"Newman" is me and that is fair.

I like The Doors, Hendrix and Kurt Cobain,
Reading Lennon's commentary and Mark Twain.
I like the abstract
Like peace, love and not having a mind in tact.
Daisies, roadtrips, the sun and moon,
Baby hippos and Bombpops in June.
Adventures to nowhere,
And knowing I will get there.
This is the me,
That those who judge with their eyes will never see.
Vale Luna Sep 2017
And so it begins

I can taste your release on his lips
Like it was my own tongue
That had gotten you to moan
So sweetly
So innocently
Innocent -
As if you weren’t the bi girl
Sandwiched between the sexually confused
And the dominating alpha

My turn now

To be innocent with your mouth
And to be guilty
With a man pressed against my backside
A verdict
That we agreed on unanimously
Because nothing is more thrilling
Than being wrong
With two people who are so right

One more time

Let’s make a chain with our bodies
He’ll stand
You’ll kneel
I’ll lay under you
Until we morph into one
Connected by the wetness between our legs
And against ours lips

Again
And again

Changing the three of us
Into familiar strangers
Intertwined in seductive affairs
Because baby
Two is comfort
But three is company.
Sarah Michelle Feb 2017
Egg salad sandwich
Sandwiched between two hands
Hands covered in rings
Rings covered in mayonnaise
Mayonnaise made with olive oil
Oil dripping from every pore
Pores huge on his skin
Skin once not-so grotesque
Grotesque since he was nine
Nine years ago he formed a habit
Habit of feeding instead of sleeping
Sleeping isn't quite as entertaining
Entertaining is the absorbance of flavor
Flavor replaces satisfaction
Satisfaction in life
Life not chosen by he
He the king, the insomniac
Insomniac turned glutton
Glutton turned manic-depressive man
Man turned monster
Shiennina Marae Jul 2015
I’ve researched about rainbows last night and I guess everything I’ve read about them reminded me of you. Yes, I have been cloaking you under the word “rainbow” for some time now and maybe it is only right to tell you why.

Science tells us that rainbows come after the rain, a storm, a sudden burst of heaven’s emotions. It does not always follow it but when the sun touched what is left of the rain, it bends light and etches out a ray of seven colors that point out different things. As light passed through the water in my eyes, I saw you. Maybe you really are the rainbow, the one after every heartbreak there is in this insane world.

Red. This is the first, the light with the longest wavelength. Maybe this is where our kisses fit. The work of art we leave on each other’s skin. We have always loved how our lips looked like after every kiss – crimson red and bleeding with genuine love. As red as my shirt, as red as your blood, left on your lips after we got lost in the moment. Red also shouts passion. This is where our love for every piece of art resides. When we walk on museums, holding hands, and inhaling dried up paint on every possible canvas there is, I let my heart melt in your palms, knowing you would eventually turn me into dust and make me your best piece of art. Red also tells a lot about security. How one can feel the warmth as the color red blends with the 4 corners of a room. With you, I found heat, warmth, and safety in a body. I have never felt I can find home in someone’s hand. I have always seen finding a home in a person terrifying, scared of the impending possibility of destruction. Here, in your palms, I found the 4 corners people have been searching for their whole lives. I have found home in you.

Orange. In psychology they say this represents equilibrium and control. I’m putting every ounce of respect we have for each other here. It is like knowing when to start and when it has to breathe and pause. It knows how to put everything in place, like my shoulder to the sides of your face, my tongue on your mouth, your thighs around me. We have been through shortcuts and the longest way back to each other but it always spelled out as just right. You have always noticed how we complement each other, and yes, we do. It is like every god gambled to see us fit our pieces together effortlessly. See the edges of my soul fit yours in the most perfect way it crept out those who broke us and left us like this. They have forced themselves to try and come up with a good picture but you see, we always made a better one. It has gone from queer to insane to all kinds of crazy, but balances out well with our sanity and clear minds when all of our monsters are sound asleep.

Yellow. It represents the clarity of thought and wisdom. This is something I have to confess. Whenever you’re around, my mind halts and seems to get off track. Full of all the possibilities that are in store for us. Full of all your words that added up to good poetry that I can never come up with. Whenever my brain wanted to lash out on all the good things I have left, you are the most peaceful sleep I get. Whenever I wanted to give up sleep, you stayed up late with your eyes half-closed, telling me stories about the times you used to feel something in your chest when you see me. Whenever I had to tell everyone it’s okay when it’s not, you tell me all the right words to show them it’s okay to not be okay. Whenever I punch walls just to feel something, you take my hands and place them on yours, telling me you are hurting, too. All my days that I spent drowning in your love came with a safety net, but I never had to use it because you were always careful about the waves, knowing I couldn’t swim. People asked me to always fill the gaps in silences, but you, you let me have my quiet. I have always felt like I am walking under the rain, under a strong storm that everything that happens to me seemed to take me to dark places. You have been the sunlight in all of that. You are my clarity.

Green. This is the middle color of the rainbow. Sandwiched in all this chaos is growth, our growth. In the last months I have seen you cry and wipe your own tears using your sleeves. You have seen me break down a million times, on my knees and finally calling on a god we used to believe in when we were kids. We have been thrown out by chances we didn’t take, or took but turned out to be lessons. As we saw broken, as we saw lost and defeat, we found each other cradling the hope of another chance to grow. We fed on bankrupt promises but now we know better – that words do not equate to actions, that the sun does not always give warmth but can also mean rain, that knowing the future is as scary as walking back to the past, that our teenage angst always brought the rebel in us, that our desire to run away is rooted in inconsistency and feeling the opposite of contentment, that love is not always good the first time you taste it. We have travelled around, tasting wrong mouths and savouring on bad poetry from people we thought we knew but just had more ways of masking themselves. They try to cover up the claw marks left on our backs but we show them to tell the world the pain was all worth it.  We were broken, yes, but one can always be whole again.

Blue. It is the color of the unknown, the sky, the wide oceans. As we go down this road I knew the sky would remind me of our always clouded but guided thoughts, and that oceans are meant to make us remember that salt water feeds our skin with the taste of life. It is the color that feeds on my obsession with knowing where everything will fall before I jumped. It is the color of distance. Of going the extra mile for you, knowing that it will always be appreciated. Of the 1911 miles of land and sea that will beg me to **** them just to touch you again. I have always feared going away, but having someone to go home to is just another story. It is the color of the sheets we slept in that night we confessed our love for each other. It is the color of all the blood running in my veins so fast when you call out my name. Stick a needle in my skin, a hum of your voice screaming “Stay” will flood your ears. It is the color of the future, of the out there we can never be sure of. The future is something my hands can never grasp, never breathe in, it is like swimming in open waters. I have always been smothered with choices. I will always choose you. I can only wish that you stop searching for a new sky to look at. I want to write a new sky for you, a new ocean.

Indigo. It is said that this color is sedating. Picture serene. I have seen this in your smiles when we talk about the things that make your insides curl into ***** of unknown feelings. I forgot rage. I forgot empty. I forgot sins. It is the tranquillity I only found in your arms. My appetite for your arms around me eat me up at night, craving for your every breathe, yes. We made a shrine for all our mistakes, laugh at our misleading thoughts. Picture calm. It is waking up to the nest that is your hair, stained with all our tears from last night’s confessions. I pulled you closer to me, thinking it is enough to keep us together for a minute, or a day maybe. But this calm is always snatched away with the question of how come these strong emotions are labelled wrong? My skin has been tainted, touched by hands that only wanted nothing but heat. You wanted friction, never ending battle between cold and hot. You touch my skin like it is the most poetic act you’ve ever done. I am worse than sin but you forgot your gods for me. Picture sober. It is that night we drank alcohol to test each other’s weaknesses, tip scales and push boundaries. Do not leave me breathing, keep me on my toes, and leave love notes on my skin. I woke up with a bad hangover but what‘s left on my sheets were your scent, spilled beer, and your last words, “Do not stop kissing me.” The gap between finite and infinite lies on my arms and yours, tell me we’d defy odds to keep each other. Your colors beneath my skin, crumbling. In all ways possible, you are my permanent. You snatched my baggage while I slept and when I woke up, I have the color of your eyes to carry. My poetry is yours to sink your teeth in.

Violet. Some says it ignites imagination. Artists crave this color so much. You were the first person to see my art as something to treasure and be intimate with. You are my favorite artist. You painted over the things I wished I never knew about myself. You spilled ink on my skin, thinking they will turn me into solid sculptures of hurt. Carve good things, leave your writing on my skin, I need them there, to remind myself you were there, and really wanted to stay there. Darker shades of this color says sorrow. As we counted days and as they come near the number we feared, stealing glances seemed to be worth more now, seconds drenched in our silences meant the world, shared meals are exchanged with uncertainties and salt on the table. I wish and sincerely hope I never live to see the day when this is left to pieces, in desperate need of repair. I can be your tragedy, but you can never be mine. I fear endings. I cannot face endings. I hold out my hand to tell people I will never lose hope. Delaying the end with delaying the start. My heart is a burning city but you made it out alive. You are my burning city, scorching my skin but I will never find the strength to let go of you. Do not leave me with your I love you’s because we will never end up in good terms. I don’t want us to end in good terms because hope will just eat me out alive. You said before you were in a place between red and blue, that’s violet. Was I a risk worth taking? Was I the safe place? This is close to your favorite color, isn’t it? That’s always how it’s going to be for us. Close enough. Almost there. Almost. Almost.

I don’t want your mouth, I crave your breathing. I don’t want your blue lips, turning violet. Death is for our bad memories, not for our bodies. I don’t want your lungs, I want heavy breathing on days we need not use words to express feelings. I don’t want hands, I want warmth, steady and consistent. I don’t want your voice, I want your throat choking on words rushing and stumbling, stuttering. I don’t want your skin, I want you here. Beside me, cradling me and telling me we’re near perfect, we’re almost there. I don’t want your red heart, I have one already. I want you.

*There is no real end to a rainbow. I hope we never have to find ours.
I love you will all that I am and will be, M. See you soon, my love.
Ian Beckett Mar 2014
Sky
Familiar “Buenos dias” from Bianca again,
Sandwiched, betubed with 5000 miles to go,
The blue-black spaceness of the endless sky,
And runwayless earth of comfortable clouds,
Reflecting on what has been and is yet to come,
A million miles of poetry, pain and pleasure,
Star Trek on the TV, seared Tilapia on my plate,
Flying to you for a first-date hello-again feeling.
Look!  The state of Israeli has taken us to dark caves,
Left us hanging between western drones
And pious chauvinism of the Islamic state,
We only harvest terrorist bombs intermittently,
As true benefactors are turfed in tight security,
Where mankind linkers an actuary determines not
Only God’s shrewd calendar has salvaged mankind
From the land based time bomb ready to trigger,
But Israeli’s avaricious eye on the lands of Palestine
Wavers not in any tincture of measure,
And western appetite for the Arabic oil wells
Has now gone fluvial spilling the moral brim,
Both have sandwiched us amid delicate edges
Tracking us down to the dangerous courtyards,
Where humanity forlornly gapes at the gathering storm,


Islamic state here comes newly fangled
Fully amoured like Arabian knights
In the dhow of Sind Bad the sailor
Sharpened to date by eastern wisdom
Where China hovers like scavengerous vulture
Waiting for sweet dish of the war plunders,
As Israel giggles at the western folly
Ever jumping into war on a simple trigger,
Evinced in the war on Iraq eked on twin towers
When the true bombers were not Arabs
But shrewd Jews who ployed and stunted
For Islamic fate on the American guillotine,

Israeli state was faked in the formation
Allowing the oil venturists to flock
Menacingly flock from America to Palestine
To usurp land that belongs to the least armed,
On whimsical claims in the  fables and rituals
Skewed to favour the tongue of Ptolemy,
Otherwise, who among us has useless history?

The state is formed by identical population,
Definitely numbered for reasons of law,
How many Israelis formed the 1948 state?
Where were the Jews coming from?
How long had they been away?
No good answer will come than drones,
It is folly to claim land you never owned
Because your foremen hailed it 14 centuries ago,
You forcefully encroach on it with force and terror
Killing and ****** the genuine land owners
Israeli!  Listen to my voice of vision;
Soon God will withdraw his favour from you
For you have ***** the weak and the poor,


Which way Africa! Which way?
Will you take to cross the battle field?
Of the possibly coming horrendous war
Between Islamic state and West backed Israeli,
Don’t go to the West in support of Israeli
For after the war Israeli will become a lion’s cub
That eats the dog foster-mother on its maturity
For a Jew prefers an Arab a thousand times,
More than he does to a black and gentile African,
Let us go east and do business with the yellowmen.
Jeremy Duff Jul 2013
My wine is on the top shelf of my closet, inside a suit case.
One pack of cigarettes rests inside of my nightstand.
My Vicodin lies in the back of the same nightstand in a small red envelope.
My **** is in an Altoids tin sandwiched between my two mattresses, by the window.
Another pack of cigarettes is in the front pocket of my backpack accompanied by a lighter.
Another lighter is in clear view on my nightstand.
Three 70 mg Oxycontin are in an allergy pill container underneath my bed.
My tobacco pipe and tobacco are in an old medical kit on the second shelf of my book shelf.

I love you mom.
More than all these things
and the fact that I feel that I have to let you know that makes me very, very sad.
Tom McCone Mar 2013
the overcast window haze casts shadows over farmlands at distance, past ferns and cottage solemnities out on plains cold and alive; meanwhile, concrete and preservative-laden once-trees cage in the zoo-horde of humanity this lovely city is built upon, through the steep divides between the walls of foreign strangers, still neighbours, calling telephone lines to the lover that makes their heart shrink in the cool sheets at a distance of eight thousand leagues under kitchen sink designs where drips escape onto a blue-grey dishtowel, strategically placed to avoid having to address the issue over farmland holidays when stormclouds gather and sleep 'til the grand show, back over the alps, as the fallabout planes drift under blue over grey with distorted fantasies sandwiched three abreast internally, whispering "you'll be here, I'll be here, seventeen minutes" as the black gown of evening bids its farewells to the long-worn ball of flame we call upon for life's little affirmations, the skin and bone we call home, the constructed caves we wish we didn't, and, letting frost's call begin, the last of the seasons hauls its bulky frame over the horizon and clusters on the fingertips of tree limbs, coercing: "let go, it's late, it's so very late" and so the sidewalks choke with debris under the wearing off of summer feet, and the declination of that peach-pit feeling of sanguinity as the blankets pile up and the distance consumes once again, long after delusion gave up the chase; we all want to be left alone and want someone to pursue us at the same time, we all dream of the grandeur of timeless monuments: the desert road, the glint of illuminated heavens, the mist's rise and fall, the electricity in her eyes.
Sandwiched in blankets.
Snoozing to the morning news.
Run! Another tardy pass.
A daily routine of my grade school days. I loved school, but getting ready for school was not pleasant. Good times.

John Archievald Gotera  © 2015
(This poem will be included in my upcoming collective katauta poetry ebook, Bubble Bay 28, which comes out this spring.)
nicholas ripley Jul 2014
Looking out of the window;
a ribbon of duck-egg-blue sky,
fringed by the sun's late light,
is sandwiched by grey cumulus.

It frames Sycamore tree tops,
red tiled pyramids with their expectant aerials
pointing West, littering clean lines.

It is a mute view;
serried bins wait for the mornings collection,
cars sit dumb, curbed,
their daily commute completed.

Two starlings flit, silent,
and in the far distance a high contrail is picked out
in gold as a thread in blue silk.

For five years this view remains changeably the same;
unspoilt by the entropy of new perspectives.
This is the summer of un-broadcast malcontents,
pacified in Brazilian spectacle. Days simmer here and there.

Soap operas filter through,
made to massage the message
of consume and discard, of holidays and pistons.

And in the mornings, that never come,
we abandon the cars that cannot diverge
from work-honed routes,
taking to the air from Sycamores as Starlings.

June 2014
Dorothy A Apr 2015
Abraham Horowitz thought he was dead. Maybe this was what death was like, desolate and bleak, no different than his last few years of sheer misery, humiliation and pain.  He already felt he was in Hell, for Buchenwald was a Hell on earth, but what was going on now?  Just where was he exactly? His glasses had been smashed by a **** guard months ago, and now he couldn't understand why he could not make out the hazy figures of the guards barking out orders and smashing the butts of their rifles into the heads and backs of tormented inmates.  All that seemed to exist were walking skeletons aimlessly drifting about in the blowing wind.

His situation was always dire, but today was an indescribably odd day.   It wasn't good or bad. Lately, little aroused Abraham to ponder upon as he had long ago begun to believe that he was an animal and not a man. After all, different walks of life were thrown away like subhuman trash—left for the flies to feast upon—and it had powerfully defined the ghastly surroundings of his disgraceful existence. People who once were somebody to someone had soon become nobody in the world.  The rotting corpses proved that out. Since he was deemed as a beast, Abraham no longer thought or reasoned like a human being. There was no longer any reason to think or to feel or to imagine anything that could inspire his will to thrive.

The inhumanity had taken its toll. Too weak to stand, he had been fading in and out of sleep and consciousness when much of the chaos of forced marches took place. The Nazis were desperately trying to avoid encountering the allied forces that opposed them. They weren't going to give up easily as they'd sooner shake their fists and make all the prisoners suffer to the bitter end. Many of prisoners were moved out as possible, but not all went willingly. The remaining prisoners—those who weren't half dead—now had their chance to resist.

Abraham's back was leaning against the splintered, wooden wall of one of the barracks. He had tried to prop himself up in an attempt to sit up and then stand up. He only succeeded in sitting up in an awkward slouch, much to the discomfort to his bony backside. The sun beat down on him, his only solace to warm up his frail, battered body, his only comfort in his state of wasting away to the shell of the man he once was. Soon the sweet sun was quenched as he was engulfed in the shadows of a soldier standing before him.  

There was nothing left in him, no more will to live. He was done. No more fear flooded his mind, only thoughts of nothingness that gave him an actual period of relief.  If he was still alive—he had thought—the best thing to happen would be that the soldier now in front of him end his miserable life with a bullet to his head. What once was deemed a horrendous fate now seemed like a welcome surrender

"Hey there... sprechen sie Englisch?", the man asked him. It was the worst German accent that he ever heard, but it might as well have been the voice of God.  

Did he speak English? Oh, yes, he did! "Ja…Englisch", he managed to utter, in sheer bewilderment. He struggled for words to say, but they could not leave his mouth.

The man crouched down and said, “It’s okay now. You can say whatever you want, buddy.”

Abraham still struggled to speak. "That is yes...I...I... do....I do...and Hebrew... and Yiddish... German and… a bit... Polish", he answered with a parched, throaty voice.  Abraham had enough strength left to place his quivering hand up to his eyes. He simply cried as the light went on in his mind. The rumors going around the camp were true! The Americans had come!

Tears are for little boys. The image of his father, scolding him for crying as a youth, dashed into mind. Abraham tried to contain himself. Weeping was one satisfaction that the inmates wanted never to give to the Nazis. Only the irrevocably broken ones begged for mercy, wailing uncontrollably as they were laughed at, mocked and scorned by their enemies.  Conditioned to show no emotional response was one up on the Germans, the only control and dignity that a man had left.  Self-restraint meant you were never owned by anyone.  

Soon a slightly cool cup of water was placed upon Abraham’s shaking lips. He slurped at it—getting more on the ground than in his mouth—like a man coming out of years in the desert. Oh, how precious was that water! He could have drunk it by the gallons, splashed in it, played in it—danced in it!  If he could only stand and be given the chance!

"Easy now, buddy”, the American advised. "My name's John, by the way". The young, freckled-face private smiled proudly, stating,”John Dunn from the good, ole USA—from Jersey...New Jersey, that is."

He was only the second soldier that Abraham ever met in this entire ordeal of brutal capture and madness of war that had a heart. The soldier was rare sight in that he showed him even an ounce of kindness. John Dunn reminded him so much of Otto Brumler that he began to weep, again. He didn't know he even had it in him, for he had stopped crying so long ago that it was as if he had forgotten how.  Lately, there just weren't any more feelings left—not even hate. Oh, how he used to hate! There were only numb movements of a dead man walking about. The tears felt cleansing upon his dry and ***** face.

Otto Brumler was a rare anomaly. He just didn’t seem to make sense in this sea of insanity. A **** guard, he liked to talk with some of the inmates, discreetly giving them gifts to pass around—some cigarettes, chocolates, cheese, bread and sausages. How peculiar to be coming from a German soldier!  Some of the inmates were suspicious that he was a spy that was out to trap them and feared him even more than the most loathing of the guards. Abraham was one of them who at first thought the man was purposely trying to get them in trouble.

Trouble abounded in the camps. If the men couldn't work hard enough, they were daily beaten and tortured, so badly beaten down that many could not get back up again. If it wasn't an act of harsh aggression, it was starvation and disease that got them. Herded up like animals, the filth from their ****** fluids and human waste was an ever noxious presence, their ragged clothes soiled in the foul mess. The stench that was once unbearable eventually became to define them as trash to be thrown away, and they had forgotten what a clean existence smelled like.  

Abraham would sometimes wake up in the morning and find the one next to him had not made it through the night. Sometimes, it was on both sides that dead bodies had sandwiched him in-between. If not those succumbing to the horrible conditions, the weaker ones were taken away while alive, never to be seen again. And some would give up the will to live by refusing to press on, passively taking a bullet or a fatal beating. Then there were those who would end their own lives as the only means of escape. It seemed one less triumph for the Nazis, to deny them the sick satisfaction of killing yet another, wretched soul. Yet the Nazis always won the victory of a victim’s life ending.  Regardless of how the death of any of the undesirables occurred in the camps, it fed their ideology of superiority just fine. Many of the prisoners lay awake at night wondering how this barbarism could flourish and go unnoticed.  When would it end? Had the whole world gone mad?  

"We survive and that’s how we win”, one of the Polish prisoners, Jan, encouraged some around him. "We make it to the end because they will be defeated. They cannot last forever. You mark my words!"

"And how do we do that?" “a doubtful Jewish teen, Eli, insisted. He once was so spirited, and he had great plans to travel the world one day. "I lost my whole family. I'm the only one left and it will just be a matter of time before they get me, too. We are all doomed!" His gaunt face and hallow eyes spoke for themselves.

Abraham needed to believe he'd have even a glimmer of hope to be free one day, or he'd have lost the battle by now. His sanity would not hold out. Many already had no hope and that was like a death in itself.  Most of the men knew that to hold on, they'd have to defy logic and hold out for hope. They'd pray with each other, regardless of being a Jew or Christian or even the agnostics, sometimes losing the meager hope that they were had. It grew as scarce as their rations of crusty bread. Nevertheless, they prayed.  

One time, Abraham was grabbed by a guard by the throat and hurled to the ground for being too slow. He had been dumping out human excrement from the campgrounds. The guard berated Abraham as he kicked him over and over again while the poor man curled up into a ball in helpless submission. Protecting his face and head, he soon found himself sheltering his groin, writhing in  pain in that sensitive area that had been attacked by a heel of a boot.

It was Otto Brumler who astounded him. Why wasn't he like the others? As a Jew, the disgust the Nazis had for Abraham was as obvious as the gloom hanging over the camp. Hatred defined Abraham’s world ever since ****** took power and convinced the people that they would be better off without his kind.  Otto was looked upon as being too soft on those he guarded, reprimanded for not being too tough and rough on the prison ****. He did not go above and beyond his duty, nor did he take pleasure in anyone's pain and suffering.

"My best friend was a Jew", he confessed to Abraham one night, sneaking him some salve for his cuts and abrasions from that last beating, providing him some meat to satisfy his longings to fill his stomach.  

Abraham actually showed a real emotion that was a rare sight these days, a slow expression of surprise. "So why are you here at the camp?" he asked him.

Otto puffed on his cigar and passed it to him. He laughed a little, replying, "I think ****** is a little man...but a big bully. I would have gladly be no part of this greedy thirst to devour other nations, but I was forced into it." He looked at Abraham and smiled a bit with sad eyes. It was quite the contradiction of mirth. Otto had a ruddy complexion and dark blonde hair. In his youthfulness, there still an air of innocence about him, a kindness that the ugliness of the war had not killed in him.

"I love my country", he admitted.  "I just hate what they are doing now and how blind we have become. It will be to our ruin."

Abraham admired his honesty. "I guess there are a few good men in this world", he admitted. "My father taught me that it isn't where you come from but who you are that counts."

"That is true, my friend." Otto patted him on the back and added, “My old friend, Avi, had saved my life."  He was speaking of his Jewish friend from childhood. "Many years ago, he rescued me from a lake in my hometown. We went there to cool off from the summer heat.  I couldn't really swim, but I became overconfident and dove in like I was the best swimmer in the world.  There, I found myself in water over my head and didn't end up so well.  I would have drowned without Avi rescuing me. Unlike me, he was fearless."

"So now you know we Jews aren't devils." Abraham remarked, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.  

"Of course not! Avi was like a prizefighter, a real proud kid. He never backed down from a fight, and there was always a challenge for him..He had to fight off the boys who picked on him for being different from most of us—for being a Jew. So he learned how to stand his ground. I was a fat boy, and Avi would defend me from the bullies who picked on me, too. He was a good friend to me. I know a a bully when I see one, Abraham” He pointed his finger all around, “Bullies everywhere, but they are not men…just weak, little boys who need someone to kick around to feel better”

Abraham knew he had a genuine friend in Otto. “What happened to your friend?”he asked about Avi.

Otto just shrugged his shoulders. “I hope he hasn't lost the fight. I wonder what has happened to him quite often...if he is alive now…if he has made it this far."  

It was nighttime, but it seemed even less secure to come together like this than if mingling in plain sight.  There was never a time where anyone could feel safe, not one minute. Abraham knew this encounter was risky, deadly for sure if caught. He talked about his lovely, young wife, Rivka, and how she felt she was not blessed with having a child. Now it seemed like it was a blessing not to rear up a child, not to have it cruelly ripped away from them and mourn the aching loss and its tragic demise. Rivka was already dead, herself,. Women and children were often the first to go. All Abraham had now was her memory, the image of her sweet face in his mind. Otto talked about his young sweetheart, Gretchen, and his dream of starting a life with her once the war was over. He still believed in a bright future.

That wish would never come true.  It wasn't long before Otto was found out about for his secret encounters with some of the prisoners and shot before a firing squad as a traitor. When Abraham found out, he wanted to weep over the loss but the tears wouldn't come. They couldn’t even come for his lovely Rivka. They only came now when Private John Dunn had given him water, mirroring the same kindness that Otto had once done, redeeming him from an animal to a man  once more.  

Abraham was eventually placed on a truck with other survivors and transported to more humane conditions. Allied soldiers were fully in charge the camp now, and there was no going back to that hellhole ever again. At last, he was truly a free man, though a heartbroken one who was not the same man as he arrived. He had not died—this was not just a dream—but he still was not convinced he would have the will to go on. The breeze on his face felt wonderful, the sun in his eyes, miraculous. That held some shred of promise for him. He passed by trees and mountainous views that he was never convinced he would ever see, again.  No more smell of death, but even the most fragrant flowers could not mask the memory of the horrible stench of his war-torn memories. Some things did just not die away that easily. Memories had a stink of their own that could not be masked by beauty. He had seen things that few could bear, much less go on to tell about it.  He'd never forget being penned up like pigs for the slaughter and made to have no hope. But by the front of the truck, there was Jan, the Pole who once said that the Nazis would be defeated and everyone could mark his words.  

Abraham looked at him until Jan's eyes met his and they both managed a smile. He had come too far to give up. He would not win the victory if he did not survive. He owed it to those who did not make it—to his people, to his fellow inmates, to Rivka, and even to Otto Brumler.  He had no clue, no answers of where to go or how to conduct himself in the world, again, but he would continue to hold onto hope that he would make it.

It suddenly dawned on him that his wife had a few cousins in Chicago that she grew up with. His mind was alerted with the remembrance of Rivka exchanging pictures, postcards and letters throughout the years, All he had of her was robbed from him in the war—everything. To lay eyes on her image—once again—and the possibility of maybe holding her actual words in his hands began to overwhelm him. His imagination could barely contain the thoughts, and he began to weep yet again. As once, crying was weakness to a man, the tears just now meant he was alive. To be counted among the living—to belong somewhere—it was the closest thing to pure joy. Thoughts of America started a small spark within—just enough to start a little fire in his soul—to lead him on to a path with a hopeful purpose. There was no turning back now.
Star BG Dec 2017
Cast your eyes to the fall sky.
Where golden clouds expand
to celebrate the moment
as leaves make a drifting tapestry.

Cast your eyes
to the winter sky.
Where winds drift with snowflakes
and breath can make you
remember your divinity.

Cast your eyes
to the spring sky.
Where sun anoints flowers to open
and songs echo behind birds wings
as one takes to dance.

Cast your eyes
to the summer sky.
Where rainbows drift and angels carry
wishes for all to be peaceful
as one walks sandwiched between earth and sky.

Yes cast your eyes upward,
to the beauties present.
FOR it is FROM there,
that love can be anchored
and bliss can culminate
WITH BREATH AND INTENTION.

StarBG © 2017
I heard Robin Williams speech about living life and when he said cast your eyes I knew I needed to write. LOL

— The End —