*****


Apr 7, 2012, 6:08:21 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




"Name: Amelia Weissmuler. Date of birth: June 6th, 1920. Test subject number 314-X. Specimen: Tiger." Amy heard all of this through a haze of sedatives that had begun to lose their already poor effect. She turned in the direction of the voice and saw a fearsome **** SS General standing behind a white clad scientist with a heavy accent. The general said nothing but listened and watched as Amy was strapped down to a cold metal table, completely **** with various wires, tubes and needles protruding from her flesh. She groaned painfully, the needles were extensive, and the **** scientists had no care of decency or respect. she was hit with another sedative and before she lost consciousness she heard the scientist, who she guessed was Dr. Heismeiller, say, "Name, Mordecai Dansker, former Major of the Third *****. Date of birth: September 19th, 1919. Test subject 14-W. Specimen: Wolf. As you
can see, Heir General, these are both healthy specimens, as are the test subjects." Amy heard a
rattling of cages. Her vison slowly went dark but not before seeing the doctor's face, uncovered and psychotic.
* *
When Amy woke up again, she was being suspended from the floor, the tubes and wires accompanied by menacing electrodes. there was an unnatural blue and white crackling of electricity around her, illuminating the other suspended tables nearby, the bodies in various grotesque positions and levels of decay. she tried to scream but found a machine unceremoniously shoved in her mouth, stretching deep inside her. she looked and saw nothing but obscene machines and various glass tubes of colored bubbling liquids. she tried sluggishly to break free but to no avail. what little strength she had was useless against the torturous devices emplanted in and around her. "Doctor, begin the experiment."
"Yaboe!" She heard a solid click resound through the room and heard a male scream in another room. the screams echoed for a long while, then nothing. she heard a gasp of releif from
the doctor and, "General! Subject 14-W... he has... Survived!"
"Good. now start on the frauline." there was a large thud from outside the room. "Quickly! this facility is under seige!"
"Yes sir, heir general. Test subject 314-X prepped and ready. Begin phase 1." she cried out silently as the needles burned hot inside her and the tubes boiled her insides. the electrodes soon incapacitated her and she fell unconscious.
*
*
"Phase 1 complete, heir general, subject is ready, proceeding to Phase 2."
Amy felt an intense burning around the needles, and an electric fire through her veins. the machine had been taken from her mouth, but she doubted she could scream any more, as her throat was raw from the silent screams of Phase 1. She felt her body shake uncontrollably as more electric shocks were administered. she was left panting and slumped over. "Sequence complete, the bonding process was a success." there was another thud and sediment from the roof fell to the floor. "Get her down now! They will be through soon!" She was lowered to the ground and unstrapped from the table, picked up, and placed on a stretcher. she raised her hands on front her face and nearly fainted, her hands, or paws, resembled that of a tiger, and as she looked, her whole body was covered in a slick orange, black and white fur. She was put into the backseat of an armored car with a simple blanket draped around
her. Amy felt nauseated
as the car sped off. It hit a bump in the road and she moaned painfully, clutching her furry belly and retching. the **** next to her turned away in disgust. the car ride was long and sickening, and she lost consciousness twice, and finally she tried to lay down in the cramped space. when the armored car finally stopped, she was pulled from the back seat and carried over a soldier's shoulder and into a small bunker. Once inside, amy heard a metal door open and was laid down onto a stiff bed with a single pillow and a single cover. There was a small window in the cell, a drab, grey stream of light shining in her eyes. She propped herself up on her elbow and shielded her eyes from the blinding contrast. Once her eyes adjusted, amy noticed that things had a particular sharpness to them and she had an acute awareness of things based on scent. she stood shakily, and noticed she was almost
six inches taller now, and her new tail swished back and forth along the concrete floor. she stepped
forward and grasped the iron bars and peeked out, seeing a black leather messenger bag and a black uniform lined with white. she couldn't quite reach the uniform, but was able to get a claw around the strap of the messenger bag. she pulled it closer to her and saw that her initials were monogrammed into the leather. she pulled it through the bars and opened the bag, pulling out a small, blank, leather bound journal and a pen. still ****, she sat on the bed and practiced writing, tearing out two pages of scratch paper. She began her journal with, "I am no longer the person i once was. i am something new, something... different."
• * *
The **** captain stepped into the bunker and saw amy, half lying, half dangling on the bed, the leather journal clutched close to her chest. he stormed into the cell and backhanded her awake, snatching up the journal as she cowered in the corner, her tail wrapped around her. the captain flipped through the pages of the journal and then closed iit with a snap. he glanced at it and dropped it on the bed. "it is yours now, Frauline. you are very special to the third *****. the fuhrer himself has asked for you to be placed in the Waffen SS and trained." amy glanced at the uniform on the table outside the cell and he nodded, "specially tailored for you, frauline. he stepped outside the cell and grabbed the uniform, setting it down on the bed. "you may Change into your new uniform and join the rest of us outside." he stepped outside and she was alone. she donned the simple uNdergarments then
slipped into the soft black trousers, after which she put on her military boots. next she put on the black and white jacket signature of the SS. the jacket was sleek and menacing, though it did little to flatten her chest, but that, she supposed, was one of her feminine charms. last was her hat and armband, both adorned with the *******. she gathered the leather messenger bag and stepped outside the cell, where a mirror stood, giving her a chance to see what had been done, the black uniform was a dramatic contrast to her brightly colored fur, and her new black stripes added a fierce look to her. she grinned and flashed menacing white teeth. she turned her body, looking at herself from different points of view. she slipped the **** armband onto her right arm and turned to leave. she stopped when she encountered a high pitch noise right next to the door. for the moment she just walked past, opening the door and adjusting her vision to the outside light. the layout was grey and barren,
as it always was in wartime. the captain was waiting for her along with a small squad of SS troops. a
Few laughed and remarked at her appearance, making cat noises and wolf whistling at her. she glared at them with a bright white snarl carved into her soft face. *they will fear me...
she saluted the captain and said, "heil ******." he returned the gesture, "heil. you are now part of the Waffen SS, frauline Amelia."
"please sir, its amy."
he noted her directness and ferocity, "very well, amy. before we assign you a task, though, you must prove yourself." he addressed the squad, "they are all corporal's and sergeants. you are merely a private. you will gain a rank for each one that you ****. however, they have been told that if they do not force you to submit, they will be killed or sent to the russian front. so you best fight your hardest, private amy."
as he finished, the squad set down their Mauser 98K's and MP-40's and stepped closer to her. her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in ferocious determination. there were twelve of them.
"Fight!"
• *
Amy took a fighting stance and faced her attackers. she attempted a punch at the nearest one but was kneed in the gut, she was thrown back a few feet. she fell to her knees and clutched her stomach with one hand, holding herself upright with the other. tears sprung to life in her eyes and threatened to roll down her cheeks. she fought the tears back and stood, feeling her claws extend. she swiped at a soldier's throat, catching him right in the throat. blood splattered the ground as he choked on his own fluids. the remaining eleven were taken aback slightly, allowing her to pounce another soldier, punching and tearing at his gut with lethal force. her fur was bloodstained and she waited a moment too late, watching the cavity she created fill with blood. she was barreled over, the wind knocked out of her by a sergeant. she lay on her back, gasping for air as the soldiers closed in,
landing a few punches and sending her reeling back. she staggered back, struggling for breath. she
Bumped up against something and realized it was a bunker wall, she was trapped. she thought quickly and decided for a new course of action, she waited for one of them to gather his bravado and throw a solid punch at her, which was useless, she grabbed his wrist and smashed his head against the wall, filling his helmet with blood and brains. in the same move, she had grabbed his Luger and had downed three more of the remaining ten. in their moment of confusion she kicked the closest one in the fork of his legs and followed up with a pistolwhip. the man went down quickly and died by the heel of her merciless boot. the remaining six charged at her, one falling by her last bullet and another caught a swift kick in the ribcage, shattering the bones to peices. the rest of the men were sergeants, and they began to retreat, running into the open field. she was about to chase after them when she
heard another Luger fire. she turned to see the captain shooting the deserters. each fell, one by
One by the captain's gun to her surprise he let a single man go. "you have done very well, frauline amy. you have killed eight out of twelve men, not bad at all."
she was panting, her uniform dirtied, "why.. did you let.. him go?"
the captain smiled, "someone has to spread you're reputation, heir captain."
she gaped at him. "i am... captain?"
"yaboe, heir frauline. you have proved yourself worthy to serve under the fuhrer."
she saluted him, "thank you, heir captain."
*
amy wrote in her journal as they were driven to one of the Stalags: "my promotion to captain has earned me my choice of weapons, ive chosen a few, two long barrel Luger's, a cavalry saber, and a sixteen foot bullwhip. i also carry an automatic Mauser in my messenger bag. other than a few knives carefully hidden on my body, that should be it. ive become the fuhrer's favorite enforcer, though i feel as if i'm forgetting something..."
amy closed the journal and placed it in her bag with a soft snap.
Amy waited for a **** private to open the car door and let her out, tapping her foot impatiently. when he finally came, she had a luger pointed at his chest. "you're late. she got out of the car and shot him, holstering the pistol as he crumpled to the ground. the colonel in charge rushed towards her, "what is the meaning of this?!"
"your man on watch was late, and now he'll never be late again. and also, colonel, as i am a captain in the SS, i am your superior officer and you WILL adjust yourself accordingly or i will replace you with someone who will."
his expression was that of shock, "y-yes, heir captain, please follow me." he escorted her quickly to the main building. amy glanced around at the peering POWs, glaring at them with distaste as they whistled at her. "who's the kitty?" "what the hell is that?"
her hands fell to her lugers and she was ready to fire when she was beckoned inside by the colonel and she followed behind him reluctantly. "you should control your prisoners.
i find an overall lack of order in this camp. you're lucky i'm in a good mood, or i'd have you strung up for incompetence. lets hope my further evaluation of this... facility... does not make me any more inclined to do so."
the colonel stuttered again and dipped his head, "y-yes heir captain."
she stepped outside unopposed by any. she snapped her fingers and a sergeant rushed to her side and saluted. she handed him a journal logbook and he opened it to the page marked with the Stalag number. she entered the closed off areas of the stalag to inspect the barracks.
*
amy's fists were clenched with rag, a prisoner mocked her from within his confines. his fellow prisoners pleaded with him to stop. "she's lethal!" "she killed eight SS sergeants and corporals singelhandedly her first day!"
the prisoner ignored them and began gesturing at her. she snapped her head up and their eyes met for an instant, she growled through a gritted snarl and was over the fence in mere moments. once over,
the prisoner that mocked her was now on the ground, his throat between her fangs. he cried out once and then gurgled blood as she tore out his throat. she spat the flesh onto the dirt and stood, brushing the dusty particles from her uniform. the men around her backed away when she approached them, and watched her cautiously as she stepped back out of the fenceline. amy picked up her cap from the ground and brushed it off. one of the prisoners called for a doctor, and when one of the guards began to look for one, she merely said, "no, he wont survive. leave him be."
the soldier saluted and went back to his post. she walked up to the colonel and said, "your prisoner annoyed me, as do you, colonel. you have three days to turn this place around or you'll end up worse off then your prisoner over there."
the colonel had turned a pale white and whispered, "understood, captain."
she returned to her quarters and listened for a moment as the colonel shouted orders. "that was fun." she remarked.

Amy was asleep in one of the larger rooms in the main  building, her uniform folded neatly on the table near the bed. she kep one luger on her bedside table and the mauser under her pilllow. her other luger, her sword and her whip were next to her clothes. she was clad only in her fur, as she'd found that the most comfortable way to sleep.
she was woken up by a knock at the door. she blinked her eyes a few times. clutching the mauser handle with one hand and holding the blanket to her chest with the other, she said, "what is it?"
"the colonel wishes to speak to you, heir frauline."
she growled, "grrr... fine. tell him to make it quick." she clutched the blanket closer as he opened the door. she held the mauser aimed at him and said, "turn." he did so without hesitation. she slipped cautiously out of the bed and began to dress. "what is it you wished to speak with me about, colonel?" amy put on her undergarments and then pulled her trousers up to her waist, fastening the belt comfortably.
"there is an important telegram for you, heir captain." she pulled on the jacket over her simple shirt, tugging out any wrinkles. "oh? from who?" next came the holster belts, each hanging slightly lower than her first belt. her sword was another belt, and there was a custom clip there for her whip as well.
"Himler, he has special orders for you." her messenger bag was next to last, slung over her shoulder before she slipped into her boots. ""You can turn now. hand them here." she stepped closer to him and took the envelope with her name scrawled on the front. the colonel excused himself so she could read the orders, "captain amelia weissmuler, once you have completed your assignment at Stalag 14, please make haste to stalingrad as there has been a number of our own turning against the *****. see to it that they cause no more problems. -heinrich himler"
she read it through three more times before folding it and placing it in her bag. she hurried outside, grabbing her hat
From the dresser.
* *
amy went about her inspection, seeing nothing wrong today. "the condition of stalag 16 has improved, heir colonel. well done. now send my car around." the colonel grinned and motioned for the car.
the black car adorned with swastikas roared to life, coming up beside her. the d

"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862

Betwixt an atmosphere of a holy nature





By a classic serenade of Christian lullabies





Unceremoniously my body sways to the beat







For every moment that elapses



More and more I become electrified



As in the wake of your presence





A song of budding amour is evoked



Try I may to suppress this sensation,



Though upon a lie I'd asphyxiate





Please do not allow me to suffer



To languish within a plethora of



A sheer and utter coating of blindness





Darling forgive me if I impose



I avidly seek for signs of proof



To know if this is real



What would happen?

© 2011 (All rights reserved)

Looking back, I think I knew she wasn’t going to wake up that night. Maybe I thought she wouldn’t wake up ever.
CHAPTER 1: ENDLESS SLEEP
It seemed to me that the fact that movies and stories make it appear as if sad things can only and will only occur during rain and thunder was just stupid. The weather has no affect on the events, right? But I was wrong. On Tuesday, April 18th, I began to realize this apparently idiotic movie ploy might have an inkling of truth buried in it.
That day, the kids had teased me again, but to be totally honest, I didn’t mind it then and I don’t mind it now. It had begun to rain when I was halfway down 17th street. I had immediately removed my shoes and socks, and stuffed them into my bag, which was already overflowing with scraps of paper and books. Most of the books had been for free time reading, and are currently lying in a heap in my room at Dad's, where they will remain unread until I decide to forget that awful, horrible, tragic day.
I ran all the way to our apartment, but went the long way and danced and twirled as my un-zippered jacked flapped uselessly behind me. My lungs burned white-hot, but my body was freezing, a feeling I still to this day enjoy. By the time I had reached the alleyway behind the crumbling yet comforting building, I was soaked through, and I loved it. I decided to go around back so Martin would have no excuse to yell at me in that foul, ill-tempered way that made the skin underneath his chin jiggle. I had started towards the rusted door when I saw her. Of course, it hadn't been her. She had been inside, where she alway waited for me to get home. But I had felt on that day as protective of her as she always insisted upon being with me.
I grasped the icy handle and slipped inside, the warmth of the building suffocating rather than comforting me. To this day, I prefer being cold, because it clears the mind, and warmth clouds it, like the foul demon that lures you into the endless sleep that tried to take my mother that day. I climbed the steps; the sudden noise of my feet on the stairs was like a rock sliding under the water, breaking the calm.
I remember how the climb up the stairs that day had seemed especially long. But mostly, I remember how the apartment smelled when I finally reached the top and slid the key into the lock, turning it noisily. I remember the smell, and how the instant it hit my nose I knew that I wasn’t to expect the warm, gentle mother I came to expect most days, but that I was going to get the harsh, drunken version, when she had been smoking and on drugs.
Resignedly, I called, “MOM! I'm home from school!” only then I hadn't known that I would never get an answer. I dumped my soaking bag unceremoniously in the hall, and it hit the floor with a wet thump, splattering mud on the tiles. When she didn't respond, I had frowned; a face Andrew tells me makes me look somehow more mysterious.
The trip I had then taken to her room revealed only that she had passed out on the bed, and that she smelt of sadness. But at that time, sadness wasn't uncommon. I don't remember how long I stood there, but I know that when I finally awoke from my thoughts, I showered and got into my softest pajamas. I settled down to do my homework, but I hadn't been trying hard, so when the time had come to make dinner, I had only made the smallest of dents.
Simply because I had been tired and hadn't been up to making anything more complicated, I made tomato soup. Mom always used to make my soup with milk rather than water, so that was how I made it too. I poured the soup into mugs, because we always liked to drink it rather than eat it. I remember sipping from my mug, and I remember how the warmth burned the roof of my mouth. The heat of it brought tears to my eyes, which were every bit as salty as the soup. I walked to her room, and knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the apartment. She hadn’t answered though, so I entered with the intention of waking her up.
“Mom!” I had said. “Wake up, I made dinner!” and I set the mugs down on her bedside table. With my freed hands, I had shaken her shoulder softly. She didn't wake though, which had surprised me, for she always woke instantly as if her dreams were frail and easy to shatter.
“Mom!” I had raised my voice, and I shook her more vigorously. “MOM!” I think it was on the third time that I finally began to realize, but I still shook her.
On the fifth try I had begun to cry, and on the sixth the calm part of me told the hysterical part: *She is fine. She will wake in the morning, I promise. She will wake. That was the first time I ever lied to myself.
I remember pulling the covers on the bed over her, and then gingerly lying down next to her. Mom. I kept thinking to myself, as if my mere thoughts might wake her. But I had known she wasn't gone, for I felt her breath next to me, soft, shallow, and hardly discernible from my own, yet still breathing. I had drunk the rest of my soup, but left hers, telling myself she would drink it when she woke. Now, looking back, I realize how stupid it was of me to have thought that she would wake up.
I don't even remember falling asleep that night, but I must have, for in the morning when I woke I looked quickly over at her, hoping, wishing that she might have risen. I remember shaking her again, pleading, “Mom, it's the morning, and you missed dinner but it's okay, I will make you more if you please wake up, please momma. Please,” But she didn't heed me. I remember sitting in bed with her all morning, watching the clock. I didn't get ready for school. My mom was more important, I told myself. When the clock had ticked from 8:29 to 8:30, I knew the bell had rung, and I was late. I guess to me that had been a signal: The rest of the world has continued without us. I remember standing up and padding to the kitchen, and grabbing the wireless phone. I remember how icy cold it had felt, as opposed to the warmth and comfort of the bed in Mom's room. For once I simply craved the innocent warmth from my mother's inert body. I walked back in and sat on the edge of the bed. I dialed 9-1-1 and hit the 'call' button.
“This is 9-1-1 what is your emergency?” a rough male voice had said.
“I-” I had to clear my throat from lack of use. “My mom was passed out last night when I got home from school. I thought she would wake up, like she always does, but she hasn't. She is still breathing. Please come,” I had said all that with a flat voice, refusing the awful feeling in my throat that warned of tears.
“What is your location?” he asked, his voice softer now.
“913 Alvarado,” I whisper. “Fourth floor, number 413. My name is Sierra Banks.”
“Paramedics are on their way, ok?”
“Ok,” I recall how loud the click was when he hung up, and I felt the cold, empty silence press down and around me until I couldn't stand it anymore. I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, except the police officers who sounded way too casual. My mom's life might be on the line, and all they do is talk in monotone. Like they don’t care about all those lives. I knew then that I was being unfair, and that they were simply used to losing lives, but...
I looked up at the soup mugs on the table and next to them...her cell. The last person she talked to. I scooped it up, went to last calls, and hit redial.
Ring...Ring...Ring... “Hello, Clemens residence.”
“Dad.” The pain of hearing his voice then was the same as when I hear it every day now. Regret had instatly clouded my heart with the cold wall I built four years ago. Tears began to pour down my cheeks, but I can't recall now if they were hot and scalding, or cold.
“Sierra?” his voice too had become thick, and I hated him for crying. He left us.
“Yes,” I had been unable to force any other meaningless words at him. I hadn't seen him in four years, when we visited him, his beautiful new wife, and worst of all, his new baby girl. He replaced me! My throat burns to think of it. I hadn't thought of Lila, my step sister, and my replacement since she was born. Fury built up inside me. Why did mom call them last? Why does she still hold his number in her phone even after he left? And most importantly, what did they talk about? I still haven't forgotten these questions, but I most certainly haven't got any answers.
“Dad, mom is in trouble. She hasn't woken up since yesterday. I thought she would wake up but she hasn't. The ambulance is on its way,” Instantaneously, I hated myself for telling him, pouring out how scared I was. He didn't deserve to know, to pretend to feel sorry.
“Oh Sierra. Oh my beautiful daug-” he began, but I had already ended the call. How dare he call me beautiful? He hadn't seen me in so many years. He didn't deserve to pretend he care. Maybe I loved him once, but not anymore. I didn’t, and still don’t, want his sympathy, his false words, dripping in I-told-you-so. But most importantly, I didn’t want him to hear me cry.
Now I find myself having to live with him, and have to be constantly aware of him walking in on me. Like the other day when he walked into my room to see how I was doing with homework and found me rocking and bawling on the bed. Gasps had escaped from me in rapid succession; my sobs had shaken the bed so that it creaked softly. My lips curled apart from my teeth as I convulsed. I sniffed loudly and, gradually, my sobs had died down. Eventually too, my ears had regained their sense, and their voices had drifted to me from outside my bubble of silence.
Most days I had control enough to save my tears for the night or not cry at all. A week ago my English teacher had made us write letters to our parents. I had asked if I could write mine to someone else, because I was still furious at my dad, and mom left me. I know that she was in a coma, and she can't help it now, but I remember all the times that I was strong through her rampages. It didn't matter anyways, because Mr. Steiner blatantly refused. I decided to write it to mom, since I refused those days to even to acknowledge that I had a father.
And to this day I remember every word, for I read that letter a hundred times that day, until I had it committed to memory, so that I could have it with me, where ever I might be.
The ambulance arrived about five minutes after I hung up on Richard. The memory of crying, and rocking endlessly in pitch blackness made me refuse even to call him my father. What I kind of father, I asked myself, leaves his daughter crying, without comforting her, when the only person who ever loved her, is a million miles away? 'Mine,' I had answered myself, bitterly.

A thousand tumbles takes a bottle in the sea-
a thousand dashes and whirls and swoops.
A million grains of sand takes that bottle in the sea,
to break apart, to come to me
in fragments like a snowflake fractal.
How many mermaid miles till she hands that glass to me?
For I've taken out my very-ness, for you.
- And my crossness.
My judgement and wrath.
I've taken out slight hot breathe
               (for you to melt the ice on your whiskers.)
I've taken out my toes when they are reaching for yours in the cavernous blanket world  through the forest of our lazy limbs.
I've taken out my righteousness
and my second guessing.
I've taken out for you (a surprise, I was going to surprise you!)
all the times you were going to be wrong to me-
          and to wrong me...
taken them out to sea, you see?
In that bottle, pretty bottle. Broken now like too many vows.
I've taken out my knowing best and finding better.
I've taken out the half moon of your thumbnail as well
...I will miss that in my night sky-
(perhaps I'll keep that after all.)
I'll take out the complacency of holding your hand getting out of a chair.
and the mindless strokes
as you explain
my commonplace crazy
to
simpler minds-
I'll take out the very-ness of me, and the we-ness of us.
and fill a bottle with a the brine of a thousand tears from hundred slights not slighted quite yet.
I fill the bottle and gift the sea
with the softness of you and the brashness of me.
A thousand turnabouts it takes to reach you on the beach,
a sea glass diamond ring, engage me you engaging man-
and the tides tickles my feet in anticipation, marry me. marry me.
just a sea glass promise
for a mermaid bride
waiting for the sailor man to sing her sweetly with salt on his lips
Just a sea glass lullaby from the man who loves me so.
Marry me, marry me
And we drink sparkling water from a sea glass flute
and we drink all the us and we drink all the we
for sea glass could never hold a second in,
sea glass is far too vain not to shine in the sun fanning
your invite out in a spectrum of color that
a small child's hand creates when he holds it up to the rays.
Spills out all of my intentions
Spoiled child, loved child,
Spills out all of my intentions carelessly on the sandy floor for the tides to swallow whole.
My sea glass prism chucked unceremoniously back to sea
and me the mermaid bride left at her own alter...
But a seashell to your ear and her my wailing sorrow calls,
'marry me, sailor. marry me.'


sahn 8/5/14

There were no bouquets
Or big white gowns
Just another day
They didn't leave town
It was really nothing special
Nothing extraordinary at all
There was no big feast
No banquet or ball
No family to swoon
Or pictures to prove
Unceremoniously married
In their living room

For you sweetheart I would....

...writhe in the ecstasy of the tragic
or behave violently,
enmeshed in ******,
heroic havoc

I would stalk the thing that hurt you and stab-it.
or quickly tie it up and drag it,
as I whisper as a crazed maverick ; click, click, son!
and swallow back the drip, drip, umm....
of the vial of acid...….as I sip, sip, yum-
Facing the truth of the mirror I find myself presently hung

For you sweetheart....!
I would sacrifice the self
relegate my identity to the bottom shelf

I would Focus on  opposites...
and pervert the lost truth of buddhists; preaching and installing the sinful cysts...

of consumerism & material wealth, I hope you get the gist.
I would Climb to the monastery & maliciously yell
“Come on you drunk monk Its for your helllth!”

Doing what you always wanted
by changing the state of truth
from overwhelming presence
...to an unseen, veiled stealth

for you I would jump out of the highest helicopter sans parachute
!ha! writing and dying, but for you,  its such a hoot

For you Sweet love,
I would divide by zero,
March up to physics and blackholes say “hey F-yourself” unceremoniously killing the hero
remembering so vividly
how we intoxicatedly emptied oil on the baby-seals relaxing on the soil of the now empty sea shelf

but for you oh dear, I would empty myself of fear
and empathize with a jellyfish
GAH!  
I hate Jellyfish.

Please Imagine sweet- love,
how we would get married,
and go through all the steps to have a sweet- baby
and in the birthing room while you’re extra weary,
I would ask the simple question to hold and carry
this special
special
little baby

I would look you in the eyes, smile widely and drop it
While you pleaded, choked eyes pleading for some God to stop it

But thats a little extreme so lets take time and rewind the scene
So that you wouldn’t think of little ol’ loving ego me as being so especially mean

Then, amidst candles start smoothly & sweeten the deal with cannibalistic clipart
Preparing to Dine on the sweet meal of a sweetheart’s sweet heart.

For you I would
I would **** a man and smoke salvia at his funeral
Then desperately plead my case,  
so surreal while I Appeal deliriously and unable
to the divine
or the courtroom of an esoteric, alien race

Oh love.
I would bury myself in venomous spiders
submit myself to mysterious haitian-zombie rituals
To keep you pure and far from pitiful
I would Self-immolate to distance you from pain and the sinful

Then
I would put the world to sleep
so that they won’t stir, wake,
or open their eyes to peep
the pain of the sun,
burning the Sea-t
of their corneas
with its brilliant and all-encompassing,
luminous heat



Oh for you bella, I would put down three 1/5ths of law and turn the key
Oh beautiful, now the mothers against drunk driving are sooo MADD at me
Because for YOU
I Crashed into their headquarters traveling erratically and so haphazardly

For you I would do everything
not just anything
but
everything.

I would chill with monks that do all the ****** up things
Go to a girls house, burn the family, burn the home
have ******* with the survivor hopefully alone
and afterwards take a long time to gnaw viciously through my bones.

for you I would discuss that maybe this voice Isn’t fit for the world
So i just wink out of existence
to protect everything from my impact, characterized as it is, so spun and twirled

For you sweetheart, I would even let this poem go unwritten.
Just so the world would not be smitten
With the space between the righteous and the wrong
the difference, is what we feel,
For you truth I write this song.

Ostensibly and indefinitely, I would infinitely
remember thee
and it all planning to never do it again.
...because my Circuitry is charged with the pain to amend me.

For your own amusement
I would help possibility incarnate
fulfill itself A-moral and without hate
the good the bad and the ugly because …..remember
When it comes to poetic possibility  
The U-and-I-verse doesn’t discriminate

I would free the slaves from freedom
I would emulate pagans and heathens
I’ll be all you don’t need when you seek to amend the world of men

For you sweetheart I would publish this as a children’s night time book

Walkin' talking gawking
the goats, giraffes, red panda
no **** tiger
exhibit like they promised
Alyssa in the OV
for a few days with her
Mom and Dad
My oldest Chris
and Sarah.
My grandaughter at our
first meeting
of course
adorable
even if a little frightened
of burly bear Grandpa

Cant say we bonded
but we blew kisses
and met
Aidan, Journey
and Cameryn
by strange coincidence
all my children
present at once
in our undersized home
lions, yes elephants yes
no tigers like they promised
for opening day

But bubbles
lifted by the wind to
great height
above the entrance
to pop
unceremoniously
to be noticed by only me
and Alyssa
at the zoo

I work for Jones & Co.
You are likely somewhere down below,
I have grown used to this unnatural height.
Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles,
working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference.
My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel.
We were mingling on the penthouse deck,
when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.

Jones is a superstitious man,
he has a dream-catcher above his office door.
He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor.
The one separates Jones from his company,
the other, us from below.
Five years of billing in six minute blocks,
labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs.
A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.



B.E. Twain

Evenings were sandwich time
brought in by big Ted
sandwiches cut in triangles
in white and brown

and he laid the plates down
on the center table
and the patients
bored out

of their fragile brains
pounced upon them
and ate ravishingly
as if time

was running out
to eat
but  
Yiska nibbled hers

took small bites
her finger tips
holding the brown bread
her white teeth

nibbling gently
Naaman watched her
his sandwich held
but uneaten

smelt
viewed
but held away
from lips

he took in
Yiska's nibbling
the way her fingers
held as if a holy host

not fish paste
and her lips
parted just so
her tongue seen

the white teeth
and her eyes
unfocused
her nightgown

buttoned at the breast
with a missing button
and he wanted
to be that sandwich

in her fingers
wanted her lips
to feel him
her teeth to nibble him

but then
the foreign woman
distracted him
by taking

her sandwich apart
opening it
between fingers
sniffing the contents

******* up her nose
muttering something
in her foreign tongue
throwing it on the plate

and picking up another
don't waste them
a nurse said
ask if you don't see

what you want
the foreign woman
chewed on the sandwich
she'd picked

the nurse removed
the torn open sandwich
Naaman ate
a small portion

viewing Yiska meanwhile
licking her fingers
******* the ends
in and out

and he wished
it he she was doing thus
he looked away
the evening sky

was darkening
through the locked
ward windows
the bright electric lights

above their heads
made mirrors
of the windows
and Naaman saw himself

in his blue dressing gown
sans belt in case
he tried to string
himself again

and he gazed at Yiska
once more nibbling
another sandwich
the same *******

technique
the similar lipping
routine
and the missing button

on her nightgown
revealed a small portion
of flesh viewed
her small *******

pressing the cotton cloth
of the nightgown
and he ate unceremoniously
the last of his bread

watching her fingers
licked again
while outside the window
the sound of fresh rain.

A river flowing against its course
As if to floss
Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity
A notable case study of ambiguity.

An estranged lover unceremoniously
Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly
In cold blood
For having been dragged through the mud.

The undercurrents of change overriding
Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding
Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs
Care not to be caught in the crosshairs.

A hopelessly optimistic romantic
Head over heel in love with the mystique
Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by
Her, she indeed worth a try.

Myriad circumstantial conundrums
That is cause of the inevitable humdrum
So characteristic of life
Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.

This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

A bond grows into
a form long and sharp, shining
with thin deception.

The knife stabs through her
unceremoniously.
Satan waits to chew.

Within the briefest
moment, the knife releases
spermatozoa, the seeds.

Earnestly sowing
themselves into her innards,
she writhes, expecting--

The lumbar region
swells in perverse production--
Mock maternity.

The formation of
a placenta from the spine--
Woeful womb of Hate.

Betrayal as long
as the knife from which it came,
borne long after Birth.


-LP

Herein, laying dormant,
    veils of reposed
      secrecy 'neath
       foamy seascapes'
              frenetic passages,
languishing below
   sunken treasures'
     false facades of
        reticently rolling
            shrouded bluffs,
 shaded of darkly impetuous
        hued blood in
          unceremoniously
             bound convolutions,
a million ancient
     undisclosed shadows hidden,
     notwithstanding combative
        rumblings of death's
         unwelcome sycophancy,
depths of centuries'
         old unparalleled stories,
 whence hush-hush
       undulatory influx
          of defiant upsurges
            and turbulence reside,
     that of which only the
          winds of indiscretion,
                 clandestine spirits
                      & gods could surmise


*...as  privileged moons watch over amaranthine skeletons

As the world defends itself from the anxiety of death,
a wind-caressed woman waits by the water,
and signals for silence, unceremoniously.
Waiting for the blood-banks to breed ideals --
which will, inevitably, be exported --
that will turn Natives into faceless, finger-painted  
neo-orphans of the broken nuclear home;
old souls, convinced to be the youth in revolt,
and to be the scrambled egg individuals of a melting ***, that disguises uniform for diversity.

Her lavender dress dribbles the spiraling air, as the copper dust swims by her ankles, knees, and thighs.
I do not remember when she told me that everything we do and say is a defense-mechanism,
distracting us from the fact that one day we will die and be as imaginative as the roles we give ourselves,
as the people we think blend into us,
and as the gods we use as an alternative to a morphine drip.

I stood by the bad river, knowing that all of my attempts at being more than what I was,
was my grasp at an out-of-reach eternity,
and a dream of a humanity that could be affected by one person.

I do not remember when she told me,
"All of our attempts at progressing,
is our way with dealing that we will someday die
and may not have been successful at living forever."

The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.

All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.

Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.

I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.

At approximately the first stroke of sunshine,
on the first day of this year,
I asked for Love.
I cried for it.
Silently prayed and wished and screamed
and sighed for it.

Beneath the glow of a golden golf-ball,
I sat and sniffed
and hoped the wish-granters were listening,
could catch a whiff of my wants
through the throng of a thousand million minds
making meaningful resolutions.

Were they?

Oh,
they were listening.

Love came calling,
crowding and mauling,
pounding at the doors of my heart
until the bell broke.

The warning signal in tatters,
it clattered in
uninvited,
unexpected,
bags in hand and
bursting with energy,
brimful of bridge-building advice.

It dumped its belongings
unceremoniously
in my chest
and went out on the town,
leaving me down on my knees,
clearing up the mess it had made
of a once-orderly woman.

It shone and danced,
spoke of joy and sorrow,
promised better tomorrows and,
like a fool,
I confused better
with ease.

There were days
when the world seemed manufactured for magnificence;
when wants were none,
hands were held,
affections yelled
and smiles seemed never-ending.
Suspending belief, I saw,
with Relief,
that Love was
heavenly.

Well.

If we are to flirt with Heaven....
what of Hell?

It was not as I expected it to be.
The visions,
in a head of romance,
see fires and demons
and dances with death, but
it’s the dance of Life
that’s desperate and mortifying if,
defying Reason and Opportunity,
you sit stiff
on the sidelines
and watch.

There were times,
of course,
when no amount of suppression
could contain the need for ecstatic expression
and the feet were flying,
arms announcing each new beat;
heated faces
framed by stars
formed moments of fantasy,
never before or since
would the world see this spectacle:
so simple.
So stunning.

Then...
that done,
everything I expected
was where I went wandering alone.

Imagination may be the key in artistry
and, in so much as life is art,
it may even set you free, but
to plant such a seed in the needs of relationship
is to skip reality,
lose the opportunity,
a head so far ahead
that what’s actually said is missed,
misconstrued and, eventually,
manipulated,
by a misguided wannabe Mrs,
into marriage and babies
and maybe more than a steady supply
of smiles and happiness.

Oh yes: I went there.
Too many times:
the temptation was always too exempt
from everything I’d tried to teach myself.

So.
A healthy dose of heartache later,
I arrived at pen and paper,
where I prepared to bare it all,
hoping to have a happy epiphany
or three
before committing it to computer screen
for all to see
and sigh about.

HA HA, ** ** and HEE HEE.

Poetic justice,
as always,
prevailed.
Thank prose for plying my punctured personality
with Reason and Rhyme.

They came so clear, so quickly,
that they caught Pain by its private parts,
spun it around,
turned it upside down
and emptied its pockets out
onto the patio floor.

As Hurt skulked and sulked by the door,
elbowing Ego
who was pacing
in a panic,
more than a little engrossed
with guessing when the game would be up
and it would be out on its ear......

As Pain -
poised and preparing to pounce
on its adversary,
ripping it to pieces
with words of sharded glass
and showing little mercy
- realised that Respect had it
by its respective receptacles
and was rearing its head in a way
no lesser emotion could hope to convey,
let alone disobey......

As Thought,
regarding the situation at hand and,
seeing that all was going quite as planned,
continued to concentrate on forming conclusions
about that most worthy opponent,
Life......

As the world whirled
and the cue queued,
almost at bursting point
and ready to take a stand......

Love tipped its hat,
took two paces
and gestured
in the direction of
my hand.

****** and ready to fight,
I saw
for the first time
a faint glow within and,
unfurling my fatigued fingers,
I found my fortune:
a gold coin,
shining and shimmering,
showering light
and understanding
into searching eyes.

Sisters,
it whispered,
with a smile.
Your wish was always granted,
you’d just planted the seed
of your affection
too deep to allow detection.

A grin crept into my gut
and kept on growing.
Sisters,
I repeated,
and defeated Disappointment
with a gentle tickle;
it fought at first
but couldn’t contain the calming caress of Release:
it curled up,
cat-like,
and purred contentedly.

The Love you wanted for
was with you all along,
in the women you walked with
(barefoot, do you remember?);
washed with,
wished with;
cooked with, sang with, smiled with:
all the while,
Love was there.

The women who watched
as tears sprang
un-bid;
who let them fall,
held your hand
in their hearts,
and un-did your despair.

The women who graced you
a permanent place in their thoughts;
who took you for tea
and took time
to be there.

Who cared for your fever,
fed you
and fastened you in,
that you might have a little security,
mid-spin.

The women who,
without warning,
could cause laughter
so heartfelt
it melted the moment
and, in minutes,
could mould misery
back into Joy.

It was never about a boy,
my Love.

And as Love shook
its magnificent, smiling head,
I got ready
to re-think the relationships;
re-examine my readiness
to relinquish Hope;
rest my pen and prepare
to put something to bed,
including myself.

But before I could act,
a deep growl grew
from the gut of the beast:
it stacked all its weight
on my door,
whacked it open,
unhinged it and me,
the coin fell to the floor....
...and I saw
what I’d almost left
undiscovered:
the other side.

Brothers! it cried.
Not the lovers you’d sought,
or the masters you imagined
you ought to bow down to!
Not the dramas
of passing pretenders;
not the lenders of hearts,
who drown you in lust
and then leave you
lost and unclear,
but dear, dear Brothers.

Who ask nothing from you
but affection;
perfection in one sweet-heart smile;
kisses that make no Mrs of you,
but instead grant your skin
the warmth of a day
in their company.

Men of honesty,
nature and pride,
who hide nothing,
having learnt long ago
that the meaning of self
is to be what’s inside,
and to sleep at night
is to face fears in the light of day,
so as to avoid the more frightening prospect
of dust-ridden dreams.

Brothers.

I cried.

My heart sang through the sobbing,
robbing my lungs of breath;
I hung my hopes out
to dry in the sun
and rested my head
in the hands of Relief:
it stroked my hair.
It winked at me
and I smiled with it,
and as I lay there
I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

...with Love.

I placed my bread to heat for just five seconds--
behold: when I came for it, it wasn't alone.
A mayfly had set up camp (so to speak)
with my wheat bread, my most favored
Amish-baked, sliced-before-my-own eyes bread;
and when I say it "set up camp," I do not
mean anything pleasant.  I do mean six thin legs
sprawled long and broken when discovered
and perhaps some melted insides; who's to say?
Something turned inside of me and I'm certain
I grimaced at least a little, and took my plate back,
thinking, disturbed just slightly.  How had I not
seen the fly?  It couldn't have touched the bread--poor thing--
just rested there, unknowing, to be slaughtered.

"Mom...Mom...Ahh, uhh, Mom!  Mom?"
(mother assesses circumstances, unceremoniously takes a napkin
to my victim, and introduces his corpse to the garbage)
"He probably wasn't in there when I...right?"
--"It probably was."
"But five seconds couldn't have killed him."
I know I am wrong
as I feel the warm grains of my prize.
(mother gives a long look and says...)
--"If it heated the bread, I'm sure it heated the bug."

I took my bounty anyway--the bread, that is, mind you--
and went to eat it absentmindedly, but found that
now impossible.  Sigh.  I also found myself
staring, long and hard, then, at half of a piece
of glorious, Heaven-breathed wheat bread,
and suddenly realized that I could not discern
whether or not I was enjoying it.  ******.
And then I tried to reassure myself by chiding
inwardly, "You're just afraid of insects
irrationally," but maybe I actually
felt that the blood of an
innocent life was on
my hands.

Why are they so stupid? I ask
no one really, fighting revulsion,
grasping for blame.

Alas, I finished eating but felt rightly robbed
of some essential part of the experience.
Yet, such is life.

Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
     the girl shared my Luna bar
and
     the phones were passed around
and
     the woman had no shoes
and
     the conductor took no tickets
and
     the women shared their seat
and
     the man gave her cab fare
and
     the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
     the girl went back to Buffalo
and
     still we turn
and
     still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
                                                                                             necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
     still we turn

there are five
and a half
blankets
piled on the end
of my bed
and if you're wondering
how i can have
half of a blanket

(well
it's a long story
but rest assured
it's not complete.)

in any case
i've tried all
of them
and none of them
are managing
to make me
feel
any better.

tomorrow
i will turn on
the printer and
attempt to salvage
what's left
of the collective
innocence of this
thwarted generation.

doubt i'll get
very far
but i can claim
what most can't
and that
my dear friends is
a little thing called
courage.

(scratch that
i'm still afraid.)

in fact
i could write
a long and
boring list
of all of my
typical
and irrational
fears.

(but i won't bother
because i trust
that you
have enough imagination
to cook up a few
for yourself.)

i'm trying
to tie up
every hanging thread
but i've been
trying for so long
that i might give up.

i remember this one time
a long time ago
when you yelled
you really yelled
over some stupid
frying pan
that i hadn't washed
or something.

no
it was definitely
a frying pan
i remember that
and i will die by the
fact it was a frying pan.

once in awhile
when someone's
mad
i stand there
woodenly
and feel disturbingly
unsafe
and i think about how
i didn't wash
that frying pan
and maybe
if i had washed that
frying pan
when you asked
neither one of us
would have a few
thousand pounds of
suppressed anger inside.

i know
i just know
you're mad
and i know
you know
that i'm mad
whether or not
i'm willing to admit
that i'm really mad
which i'm not.

(but i am
by the way.)

i'm hitting the
breaking away
but i'm hitting it
late
and i'm hitting it
hard.

like an
overly confident
concrete
wall.

back to the printer
and tomorrow
i would
hope

(and i would also
pray
if i happened to be
the praying type)

(but i am not
the praying type)

that you all know
that the very
stubborn
streak in me that
could turn out to be
my most valuable asset
is also the thing
that will
promptly
and rather
unceremoniously
deploy a
bomb.

*(just thought i should
remind you that
in every strength lies
the ***** in the armor.)

i see the matchbox girl
dressed in rags
skin transparent
veins so blue
and you're curled
unceremoniously
between heavy linens

this perpetual pattern. a thousand spreadsheets of the thing, draped unceremoniously about the furnishings of my mind. digits and symbols tapped into a machine to keep every schtick continually whirring. rare concessions of dumbfounded dazzle, no time or place for wonder. untidy notes, impure thoughts, callings from the mud--the whole deal, and yet i still hold my fancies. with careful introductions i can shut the monster down. it has dreams of its own, collected in dust, and when the time comes to sit out defeat they unfold in my lap like grotesque paper flowers

Seven men gunned down
Two taken captive at the foot of the hills
One cooling off in the belly of the beast
Seven more buried in unmarked graves

Alpha tango, alpha tango
Black hawk is down
Do you read me
Black hawk is down

We are neck deep in enemy's line
Chances of survival are slim
More men will be bury unceremoniously
To retreat is not an option

Alpha tango, alpha tango
This is the last man standing
In the pool of his own blood
Confirm you read me

Enemy forces are advancing fast
There are few choices to make
Except to do the unthinkable
And die with the enemies

Alpha tango, alpha tango
My daughter will be one in two weeks
I wouldn't be there to buy her gifts
Grant me but this wish to give her a bundle of flowers

Tell my wife I'll die
Thinking warmly of her
Send roses to my mother
Tell her I love her till the end

Alpha tango, alpha tango
This soldier is asking your permission
To die for a just cause
Over and out!

.                                                         ******* *****.
The words come out swift
                          and angry,
accompanied by the contempt
                          in your eyes.
                                                         ******* *****.
I stand, accosted by your
                          animosity,
accepting every insult you fling so
                          unceremoniously.
                   ­                                      ******* *****.
Sorry, don't think I heard you quite
                          well enough.
Please, repeat so I may keep your words
                          clutched closely.
                                                         ******* *****.
I take these taunts you throw out
                          so casually,
                          mold them tightly
                          into a ball
and force them down my throat,
                          swallowing them
                          like the poison
                          that you are.
                                                       ******** *****.

Exhausted
I have done to myself
a beating worth giving to somebody else
Someone I used to know. . .

Inducted
Unceremoniously but proper
Into a world pushed out of a stopper

Oh, how I used to know
the shine of your skin in a moonlit glow
the pause of your chest after taking in breath
Awaiting the exquisite,
Inexorable,
Exhale

Where I too would exude from your abysmally beautiful depths
to fall gracelessly down frosted wrought iron steps
to land in a mangled heap of electrified fear
Wishing frantically
that your faraway ears may hear
the call of my heavy falling tears.

For years
Four years
the end had loomed near
but I pushed it away
Awaiting the day
When I would exhaust all the words I had left to say

It never came
It never does
So what you're left with ought to be enough
but if it's not
then stop right then
Quit right there
You can't hold it in
Breathe out your tainted air

February's
another month marked;
its ever requisite yellow roses
unceremoniously left for a morrow's snow's
cover of quiet over stone rows;
a foot path pocked
temporarily

Stands tall in dark cloak.
Menacing shadow smacks the alleyway.
Wall dressed in gaslight.
A bag of tricks grasped in his hand.
To turn tricks of his own on night ladies.

The night ladies cackle in raucous laughter.
In the grasp of inebriation's smile.
A stallion bedecked in funeral regalia.
Waits impatiently for his return.
Heavy shod hooves heard scratching the flag stones.

Stallion awaits acknowledgement of death.
Death soon to approach the first sweet soul.
The first of five.
Sweet Mary Ann Nichols.
Throat unceremoniously slashed.
Her abdomen was broken too.
The work of the devil maybe.
Whitechapel August 1888
Was no place for a lady of the night to be.
Despite the chapel, in the name.
This was no religious lair.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Killing herself slowly, silently,
unceremoniously.
The glowing ember perched between her lips,

She breathes fire.

No blood pooling on ivory wrists,
no pill bottles scattering the floor,
just dark eyes and a chain around her neck.

Pulling the world into her lungs,

She breathes fire.

Her watery eyes sooth her raw throat,
as billows of lies escape
her red painted lips.

Flames lick the inside of her palms,

She breathes fire.

With a sad smile and slight shrug,
knee high socks and a black heart,
ashes to ashes, she inhales,

breathing fire

as she burns.

Unbeautifully she undresses,
unraveling my understanding.
Unceremoniously she grabs me,
undoing me to madness.

Unbuttoning my pants
and tearing at my sleeves,
inelegant her moans and
undainty are her screams.

Unbelievable the ***
underlying all the sweat,
undenying is the passion
on the bed sheets that we wet.

Unconventional,
uncontrollable,
unforgettable the night.
unacceptable,
uncontainable,
the thought of mornings light.

Unceremoniously awoken, too early, by nature.
Sunlight infiltrates my eyelids
Even my darkness is a warm golden tone.
My head pounds
And my stomach gurgles.
My body seems to be being punished
For the delight I take in Texan brews
But my mission was accomplished.
I am understood now
And that's all that matters.

This is how you set a circle with the switchblade someone shoved in your purse at a party; remember how even in your sticky-haired, belly-foaming, hot-breathed drunkenness you knew its potential,
Finally an amulet.
Finally a flashlight.

How you would coo a greeting to it and let a centered, solid voice, (frying a bit at the end of most words, softening them like frayed denim)plunge down cold metal like a rickety ice luge that’s long been disqualified.
How you came to learn the weight of it in your hand,
all the ways to open and close it-
how to threaten,
how to strike.

These were the dewy-dank months of frozen toes shrieking in boots because you never got it together enough to dress in proper socks.
These were the mornings when your alarm blared alive from across the room because you could not be trusted with the snooze button.

Remember how you would wake up terrified, day after day,
with a stinging heart and metallic mouth?
How; dreading even the smallest bit of duty, you’d take a panicky inventory of the day’s looming obligations and graph the ways you might avoid them.

These were the stretches when even a full night’s sleep left you sunken eyed and exhausted-
when the idea of being anything,
even just being,
was too much to take.
These were the days you realized; with little alarm, that you might prefer sinking into death
over lifting up your head and getting dressed.

There were a few weeks that winter when you wondered if the snow would ever stop falling and the calendar was clean. You set your hair into two braids and cut them off with fabric scissors, fully intact.
You tweeted a picture of them with no caption then threw them away.

You were sad and putrefying, slowly collecting candlesticks and diligently keeping track of the moon.
You were color-coding post-its for each lunar phase, plotting; with a thawing-thick body and knotty spine, where your mishandled energy and menacing hyper-focus should be applied next.
These months were so heavy- dragging your feet through them made your skin crawl with static. Your shocks cracked rooms. Your clothes never felt completely dry.

This was the season you halfheartedly turned to nature, searching for a pulse in the barks and rubble of the surrounding land which you might mirror into something almost alive.
The days were bright and white and the nights were swaying and L.L. Bean navy blue and you didn’t smoke but your hair always smelled like Marlboro reds.

When the moon was highest you called out to it, asking for favors.
These were the hours where you could swear you were the only living soul taught to bite down.
These were the hours where you knew for certain what it is like to be dead.
Drinks up to the year you read poems aloud to storms and set fire to handwritten letters with your best friend in the middle of your white collar condominium unit at 1pm.
And smile because at the time it was exactly what had to be done.

Now comb out your tangles and bury the switchblade deep in powdery dirt below your bedroom window.
Do it unceremoniously and fast- it belongs knotted tight in orbit to the year you are now galaxies removed.
Though you may unpack your telescope and salute that tiny hell from time to time- you will never call it home.


That year; however heavy, is the year you must carry with you.
It will be trekking along, a step behind, across every mountain you climb and it will race you to catch dreams in every room to decide to sleep. That year; tinsely-light and braided tightly into veins, sings softly to you from below the defaced skin of your wrist in a language you're just beginning to understand.

Lesson number 1: a web of scars arranged by and for oneself can be a compass. In fact, it may be the ideal tool for orientating oneself to a clear-eyed world where presence is not shameful and the terrifying decision to exist should not require apology.
Lesson number 2: A road map etched over your body, charged electric by the intensity crawling through your marrow and planted by bits of you now reconciling-
This map can guide you well.

And your compass pulses with the life within you. Instead of pointing north, the needle will spin wild and fast until your bloodstream rocks a calm tide up and down the coast of your chest, bathing your lungs and conducting  your breath into a rhythm swaying low.
You’ll think you hear the vague sound of something almost hopeful; something that reminds you,
giggling and bluntly, that there's a mystery of years ahead of you
and to wholly exist in them.
I finally see that whether I’m on a giddy spill south by southwest, housing a heavy sorrow in my kneecaps or walking in rain boots Due North while wiping away tears with my ponytail-
the very fact that I’m still trusted with years to travel through and a world to inhabit will be more than heaven on earth.