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'Oderint dum metuant. Atreus, Books III–V "De Ira", I, 20, 4.'

They unwrap me like candy
Peeling, stripping flesh and sinew carelessly

Rice paper thin boldness dissolving
Melamine tinged shifting unsettled smiles

I grin back at them sweetly,
Teeth and jaw, bare bone beaming white

They have made me no more but the refreshing whispers of wrappers
Now, I am the nothingness that they cannot destroy
White Rabbit taffy and Polo mints are popular childhood candies in my native Malaysia (and my personal favorites as well). White Rabbits are milk flavored candies wrapped with an edible rice paper layer, the dairy used to make the taffy was contaminated by Melamine during the 2008 Chinese milk scandal; many governments deeming it unsafe for children to consume. The Latin above reads 'Let them hate, so long as they fear'
Riley Cartwright Dec 2018
hey
i know its been a while
since we've
talked
and i don't really
know
if we're still
close or
not
but i
need you back in my life
cause i'm in a fight
with myself
and i don't know
which one of me is
right
i need some
positivity
to get over these memories
i need you to help me to my feet
and if you could
kindly manage
to help a friend who's  really famished
well that old friend would be pretty
sweet
you see i'm starving
i'm hungry for adventure
but i'm also stuffed
from thinking about the future
and if there's one thing
i know
its that you have helped me grow
and on a side note, you'll reap what you
sow
this will give you time in the light
in my life
to give you time
to set things right
with everything that's ever caused you
harm

dear Dafydd,
i need you to come back
just for a little while
zebra Dec 2018
come here with the jackknife and see what I'm made of
i'm **** candy she said
taffy and blood
a steaming deli
doomed chicken of the sea
doll parts, splayed pomegranates
femurs left in a ******; wish bones
eviscerations to admire
peaches and cream sprinkles
skin like cold grey soap
barbed wire ******'s spas
like a toilet flushing
spirographic squiggles
at the museum of modern art

video girl
video girl
video girl
like
butter flies flutter bye

dead movie star dancing
a matinee cyclops
everybody wants a glitter ****
incandescent candy store
a piece of her to take home in little bite size chunks
in a heart shaped pink box leaking red meat
enshrined crucifix; kosher
an **** of heretics like me
and maybe like you

god is whatever is in your heart

i pray to modernism
to be saved
by *** death and resurrection
and a bigger ****
impregnation ghoul
like a solar ******* hero
*** heroine
a Bedouin and a Jew ******* each other off
in a New York City
Holiday Inn
while the Kabbalah and Koran read each other

I packed the suit case
with a yellow mucous colored rubber tube, a razor and stockings
I don't know what ill do with it, but ill think of something

God spins death
so why cant you; or are you to good for that
albeit a narrow construction
to carve my fate in such short order

ill get into my short short funeral skirt and girly bobbles
ill go up and down on you like a yoyo
sea Venus foaming *******
til you flip me over
a deli sandwich
and cut me in two
splattered ketchup
on the blue plate special; extra mayo
while a huddled sabbath of *******, extra ******
groan like Pisgah turned to mulch
indigo shards suicide note
ending in
i don't mind
and precise instructions
please chew slowly while I **** on your teeth
stuck rot
while still kissing you
better bring a napkin and floss

you know I would get hot,
seeing my one way ticket next to your return one

wish we could
**** candy
pastel chew
blood bubblegum
melts in my mouth like quicksand
hissing fruity drops looping
you go down like squid
clawing your way back up half chewed with that hurt look
making wet mud holes blink
dark vapors tear my eyes

you wont need a head stone
your feet will look good sticking out of the ground
with anklets
a fashionista
except upside down
your funeral; a foot kissing ritual
religion; follow dead feet, to paradise

head down *** up
you know; the position of power

your the new aeon
grave stone arches with toe ring twinkles
rectitude striving
hot head buried in dirt
antagonizing worms
because your to hot to chew
like molten core
a zombie ******
velvet tabernacle
smooth leg art
and pretty pointy toes
ascending
where glitter lights shine
pickle brine
green
in a
Promethean ******* ballet
phantasmagorias dark embrace

this is no ordinary love
dialog of paraphilias
surreal horror subversive
a poem about the non-rational sacred
untethered poetry
song of a shattered world


Across the spectrum of religious experiences—from the archaic and chthonic experience of sacred power to organized religion—surrealism arises in that elusive threshold between the sacred and the profane, between the illuminations and of everyday life and the more formal expressions of the sacred. The mysterious, contradictory nature of this liminal zone is embodied in surrealist literature and art: matter becomes metaphor; the ordinary object becomes extraordinary; and images evoke emotional disturbance and ambiguity rather than specific ideas. The ambivalent force of the surreal resists conventional rational categories of intellectual discourse. Behind its elusive potency of mood and charged associations lie the fundamental ambivalence and non rational power of the sacred.
—Celia Rabinovitch, Surrealism and the Sacred
Bison Jul 2016
Giving in to making small talk chatter.
Collateral atoms scatter over my head
Perfect pitter pattered patterns.

Behind my eyes grey matter
That feels in tatters
After it burned out the rafters.

Is my skull getting fatter?
Madder than your favorite hatter.
And I won't get an ever after.

Never been a dodge drafter
I meant a draft dodger. (cue the laughter)

Who makes taffy taffer?
And who made Daffy dafter?
Bugs and carrots for my Satur-
Day morning napper.

Paint splattered pancake batter.
Knife and fork clatter.
Belly never felt so dapper.

If I had to choose I choose Venonat, er
I meant you Pikachu! (What a Knee slapper!)

Always been a little scrapper
Even when I was bigger batter.

And I don't know no pastor
But I got the spirit moving faster.

Probably should've been a future rapper
But I could never be a present wrapper
And I'm more wrapped up in the past four
Years that were snatched by time snatchers.

But now I'm bored by this rhyme planner
So I'm gonna go get a snack or
Two.
Camilla Green Oct 2017
Every day the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy,
sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white.
She swung sunbeams into starlight
And I thought it'd drone on forever.
//
Every dawn the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils,
pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy.
She swung sunbeams into starlight,
And I thought it'd drone on forever until

I realized that sprinkled sugar cookies made hands numb flammable,
that you can't feel them again until they leave the powder blue locker room,
until they're in the car, worried they might melt the steering wheel, when they’re left to figure out why.

Now streetlights gassed with Canadian lypophrenia
make snowflakes float like stardust,
while splintered lilac fingertips trace meaningless constellations,
as they ponder whether daisies can tell
if someone loves you,
                                       or not.

With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust
for December's cruel weather to warm,
so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor
and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
We’d swing dance in the sidewalk cracks
drowning in footsteps and manhole steam.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake
and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace,
that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes
that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars.
The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed-
a dripping orb of love and light thrown against
the burning oblivion of the universe.
I pull in the horizon like a great fish net
So much life in its meshes!
I call in your soul to come and see.


With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died,
still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans
and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles,
unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars.
But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills,
drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket
of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets.
To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers-
for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine,
and still, you slathered it on.

Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out,
the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up,
and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.
Eyes streaming, I reached for a shooting star,
but the night does end, dawn always rises,
and my precious last chance melted in my desperate hands

because i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and I paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

In apple-killing cold, stars fade in the amber glow of tiger's eyes,
gray clouds are still bursting with starlight,
willow trees will forever weep diamonds,
and daylilies still steal away sleep.
This one's for you,
Evan Stephens Mar 13
The steeple tree is always falling
today in the wood your hand
the flower walk and the
long east of it, the last one
Trish the bar four pints
distress bit lip call
Yes, I know it's, Yes
taffy-pink sky, orange stripe
leaning up, it stutters
hers, the place is, evenfall
& the bird-perch pole
wipe the hair slowly across
bare and my skin a garment
No, it's ok, I'm ok
a tightness gathering
"heaven blotted region."
After Ashbery.
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Graff1980 Oct 2018
The red wax lips
never drip
or even melt,
so, I merely
chewed on them,
enjoying
the strange
flavoring.

Tiny penny
tootsies rolls
were not as good as
the ones
my grandma made.

Little colored
laffy taffy
made me wacky
when I tried
to tell
the jokes
from the wrapper.

Zero bars
were better then
the musketeers
but not the
almond mounds.

Easter chocolate
and jelly beans,
makes my mouth water
even now.

Those sugary treats
cause me
to salivate
greatly,
even from the corners
of my memories.
Jen P Oct 2018
If I considered you for a day
Would I know love?

You pull at me
like taffy.

Place a sticky tendril in your mouth,
and deliberate on the sickly sweet
as it coats your tongue.

I look from where you have
taken
and feel
like empty calories.

someday i hope you
and your sticky hands
know.
Guys always are obsessing about Asian girls but I can't figure out why. Sure there's the occasional knock-your-socks-off attractive one and sure they do frequently have quite shapely legs, but by-and-large they don't have ******* or buttocks to speak of. The guys just want the anime girls. Guys talk about super-models too, but they have the same problem: no ***, no ****. Not only that, but models are way too tall, and way too skinny for their height to boot. The attractive height range for adult females is 4' 10" to 5' 3" (at least Asians have that going for them). As for weight, they shouldn't weigh less than 100 lbs at the lower height range, or more than 150 lbs at the higher height range. This is important because proper ***** weigh at least 4 lbs each, and buttocks at least 8 lbs each. That's about 24 lbs worth of *** and **** alone, and you gotta fill out the rest of your body to balance that out. A little bit of a stomach pooch is adorable too. I don't get the pasty white skin thing either. Good skin tone is on the spectrum from Persian to Bantu. And what's with the blonde hair thing? Dark brown to black is clearly the greater beauty, though the right red can really be a knockout. And wavy hair reigns supreme: avoid the extremes of straight or tight curls. But tight curls are better than straight.

You know? maybe just be Salma Hayek.
Ari Apr 2018
it feels like my mind is being stretched out
like taffy
it sticks to one's fingers
sickly sweet
swallowed whole, no chewing

it's also akin to a TV set
a dizzying tizzy of static
colorbars across the screen
only seen in black/white to me

my every thought is a grain of sand
once neatly nestled together caressed by calm waves
but
a hurricane came through
and now
their scattered
*they're scattered.
and *****!
oh, how they are *****.
but then again, sand is always ***** isn't it?

i don't know where i'm going with this
i lost the way to 'metaphor' or 'inspiration'
so i'm just going where the wind takes me
and hoping i'm not chaining myself to a tornado
Mallory Michaud Jul 2018
My eyes click clacked
To the cling clang
Of a bottle of *** hitting marble
Ava was sitting on the bar countertop
The boy with the glasses
Folded between her spider legs
Their teeth like piano keys playing one another

She ****** his shirt
Red maraschino
Pet his cheek with her
smooth leather palm
Stroked his hair with
Comb fingers
Bejeweled with silver rings

She stretched out her vowels like taffy when she spoke
Giggles stabbing themselves into the middle of her sentences.
“I️ like the way wine makes me feel”
She purred,
Swishing the words around in her mouth before she chased them down with
Pino Gris

I’d never seen this version of Ava.
Night velvet
Black cat
Skin sheets of raw silk.
She was slippery and evasive,
Like a mermaid
Hiding behind her hair and her scales and champagne,

Because
Inside
I️ knew
She wished the boy
With the glasses and the red shirt
Was her Brooklyn boy
So she kissed him with wine lips,
The force of disappointment and pain
Herb Apr 11
Chocolate covered trumpets
Played by Cotton Candy boys
And clarinets dipped in caramel
Make a sweet and sticky noise

There's a parade today in Toffeetown
Praline Street has been cleared
The Bubble Gum Band marches past
As the Root Beer Float draws near

Here is the Candy Apple Cadillac
The Grand Marshall in the back seat
He's waving and throwing out peppermints
Which land at the onlookers feet

The weather could not be more yummy
Warmed by a Creamsicle Sun
Praise God, the clouds are not raining
Or the Queen's Taffy Taffeta would run

And look!  It's the Toffeetown Pep Squad
So funny as they dance, prance, and sing
Performing fantastic maneuvers
On a Cream Pie Trampoline

And now the festivities are ending
The street littered with gum drops and cake
The Jelly Jam Janitor starts sweeping
He'll throw the leftovers in Marzipan Lake

But a great time was had by all
Parades are a lovely invention
Now Toffeetown must prepare
For next week's Dental Convention
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Watching a classic
Casablanca Class I Fix
Trix cereal for adults
Goddess sundress
The class act you need to guess
Her
fit* no-one would
know vibrant
Getting the OJ of the miracle
Sunbathing at the
     *Pinnacle


His skin news of the
Chronicle
The fix-up finale deeply
in her classic smile
Sunflowers of the sunray  
Tropicana class act deviant play

Quickdraw Gunfire
Her hot tango steps in action
Copacabana
Diamonds no chips
Big tips at the Gentleman
OH! Boy the cabana detention
Class I comes with affection
Kiss is not a kiss without a real scene

In action to miss a classic movie hit
Adventure Trips  flipping homes
In the classified newspaper middle section

She is the Classic with an illuminating passion

I the Classic one and he is
surfing the internet
So fit to be tied but casual love
She the same person wearing her
flip flops
******* off *Root beer float tops

The root of all evil
That She-devil Sire
Not the ordinary campfire

It takes a certain Class, I can fix peoples
problems  like great ***** of fire

We are not signs or perhaps it's in the signs
Emblems
Where you came from no problems
Take action get more satisfaction
Army grenade we are all
fighting in action
Action speaks louder than words
One of a kind the rare find
A classification of her mind
Understand each other
do the hiring
  Trump in action job firing

What drives us and gives us
gratification
We need to love what is above
our minds
I believe sometimes you don't have to be where the action is

The Rainman Rainforest Vacation
You are the I phone off
with the ringer
Classic type Class I
Our computer all rules
codes and passwords
The religious Pope up front
He's the  Marlon Brando waterfront
You have the polka dot bikini

Panera Sandwich Panini
Orange you glad its cantaloupe
He wants to elope
your classic smile
Exclamation point
At Times Square you could
lift her for miles

Whether we look modern
The technology is always out of reach foreign
Or wearing your heart in his heart
Your wiggle walk
The classic style to talk
Fifties **** smoke
Born to be wildlife everything
is on Castaway
Or layaway on hold

And he is athlete runner so hype
Everyone is busy on
Twitter or Skype
The Facebook and photos

Dorothy loves wizardly Oz and Toto
Were all together like
a congregation, not a citation
Living in the city paying rent
Another wicked concert event

How many times did you get that notification?
The auction house in action the bid five times
Those hot leads of crimes
Playing for a nickel heads up dimes
Class act Quarterback
Elephant treasure trunk
ten commandment
Class, I lady leading the way
Class, I fix the parliament

Her classic fifty style army dress in action
Her bullet lips caught quite an attraction

Feeling the comfort food
Mac and Cheese
Silly names those 
 Canadian A&W
ATM Class I
The French fries do or dies
Skinny He's the Ham Mac
You're the spicy Cajun
on the speaker Mic
What classifies everything in
our life
High stunts action cliff taking a dive
**** Bill he kills me all the time

That Buffalo Bill Chicken Mac
Bombastic not the
forever love classic
With a whole list dark Raven
Crystal rock Haven

Everything lately goes so fast
Getting in Saint Anthony fire
She is the livewire
The gunfire or the cease her fire
Out of money  honey bee
******* mansion multiplier
Everything you're
near his or hers
Wineglass stir me
like an amplifier
What happens to your
responsibilities running
racing your own time
The  Coffee man suitor
My Godly dictator
The saltwater taffy-like lava
Comic Disney Pixstar meet Daffy Duck
Or you overqualified being lied too
Oh! Chuck

Like a candle in the wind its in
the science hot steamy
romance engagement
What awaits things to come
getting blown away
It just like any other day
How we classify things or lose things how our mind cannot remember your best words even writing a poem it takes practice more advice action speaks louder than words like the law and order. I think this poem might be your order. Please tell me how it classifies is this a class act to follow get your coffee fix action we will start the movie my poem classic relax
Julie Rogers Feb 25
I watch you spin your words
like taffy on a taffy puller
And I, a child,
remain in the window staring
At the spun sugar
Caramel
Lamenting that I don’t know
what you taste like
Fascinated at the way
your world turns
your words turn
Sugar sweet
Caramel burnt
Lyss Gia Jan 28
Mary, plain name.  Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, ****, and ***.
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a *******, Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Ira Desmond Apr 8
Capitalism will draw
and quarter you. Capitalism
will stretch your cells,
like saltwater taffy
until their membranes tear apart.
Capitalism will seek
to extract as much profit as it can
from your aging body,
and then, after it’s had
its way with you, Capitalism will do
the same thing to your children’s bodies.

Capitalism will tell you
to treat yourself to
a hundred-dollar Waygu beef
burger with gold leaf and
a perfectly fried egg on top
(along with a piece of New York
cheesecake for dessert),

and Capitalism will tell you
that your body is hideous,
shameful. Go to the gym
already and fix your
disgusting fat thighs. And do
something about
those stretch marks
from your latest pregnancy.
How could you
allow yourself to look like that?
And why not try these slimming
garments to hide your
cellulite?

Capitalism will tell you
that you’re beautiful just the way you are.
It will show you unphotoshopped ads
with curvy women wearing no makeup
and smiling, confident and empowered,
while it whispers in your ear
about how woke it’s become.

And Capitalism will tell you
that actually
your **** and *** big aren’t big enough.
Why don’t you look like a Kardashian, and
why can I still see your pores?
The way you’re doing your
eyebrows is so last year, and
how are you ever going to meet
the right man
with that basic ***** wardrobe?

Capitalism will tell you it’s time
to start a family. In fact,
time is running out
for you to start a family.
(Tick-tock tick-tock.)
It will show you
pictures of smiling babies, swaddled safely
in warm cribs.
(Tick-tock tick-tock.)
It will show you
images of storks wearing delivery caps
and white two-story houses
in well-to-do suburbs
where everyone has a nice job,
and the schools are good,
and they still get together for block parties
and barbecues every year
on the Fourth of July.
(Tick-tock.)

And Capitalism will tell you
that actually now’s not the time
to start a family,
that you need to
work hard to be successful, and, really,
you should be willing to commute
a few hours each day
if the job is worth it.
Capitalism will tell you
that nobody gets ahead without
hard work
(an outright lie),
that everybody else is working harder
than you are
(another outright lie),
and that you need to have a side hustle
if you want to keep the pace
(another outright lie).

And Capitalism will also tell you
that you need a vacation
or else you’ll burn out.
Capitalism will tell you that
your vacation needs to be epic,
the trip of a lifetime,
deeply Instagrammable,
or you’ll have done it all wrong.
Capitalism will tell you
that you should spend extra
to stay in that luxury over-ocean villa
in Bora Bora, and if
you don’t stay in that luxury
over-ocean villa in Bora Bora, then
you must not be working hard enough,
you must not be
one of the worthy ones.

Capitalism will tell you
to stay informed, always,
about what’s happening in the news
because keeping up with the news
is important for educated citizens
like you and me.
Capitalism will tell you to keep following the news,
to keep reading Twitter to the point
where you’re anxiously,
repeatedly pulling down
to refresh,
waiting for the UI to refresh itself,
fixated, always
waiting for the Tweets to refresh
themselves.

And then Capitalism will tell you
that actually you need to be medicated,
because the problem is you here
and really you’re way too anxious,
and life is too short, and
you deserve to be well, don’t you?
Capitalism will prescribe you
drugs to enhance
the other drugs it’s prescribed you already
(Abilify®)
and then give you more drugs to combat
the side effects
of your other drugs
(Lucemyra™)
and then it will sell you more drugs
to reverse any overdoses on
your other drugs
that you might end up having
(Narcan®).

Capitalism will tell you
to do everything you do
as hard as you can possibly do it,
because Capitalism is
at its very core
a glutton
and a sadist.

But one thing that Capitalism
will never tell you to do
is this:

Climb, naked,
to the top of a verdant
hill
in late spring
on the night of a full
moon.
Do not howl
at the moon.
Instead,
breathe deeply.
Place yourself
in the fetal
position
amongst the coarse
sage and grasses,
allowing
their branches and blades to scratch
your skin,
while the centipedes
emerge from the dirt,
and slither over your body
and the crickets
sing
and the mist
of your dead forebears
washes over you
and communes with you,
laying bare
those unquantifiable truths
that Capitalism has never known,
and will never know,
and will therefore never reveal to anyone.
While exposed
in this fashion,
realize that the whole of this Earth, too,
is exposed, naked, fetal—
every bit
as alive and as vulnerable as you are.

Capitalism will draw and quarter the both of you.
tempest Jan 7
touches of glitter
specks that pepper your face
flower petals
soft and gentle, almost a slight brush upon your cheeks
drowsy rain
not hard, but a faint patter of some sorts
beams of moonlight
the type to give light to our flaws and perfections
the smell of an old book
familiar, with a story to hold between every yellowed page
salt water taffy
because it stays in your mouth forever, but leaves you wanting more when it's gone.
wasted special something
Fae Fengari Nov 2018
Let it be known that below my hard exterior I am cherry taffy being pulled with every step

Let it be known that my skin is mailable and my tissue is raw despite my bandages

Let it be known that I’m oozing melted sugar that stained my wrist red and my teeth grey

Let it be known that I am sore from the twisting motion that stretches my words so they don’t come across as they are

Let it be known that I have scars that are not invisible but are always concealed

Let it be known that I have wounds that are gaping and open but never revealed

Let it be known that I am brittle and cracking and cold and curdled

Let it be known that I am wondering what the Hell I should do now that I failed at giving up

— The End —