so um... help me pick.
REUNION
Dance among the coloured flowers,
And wear pure white.
Meet me there,
And we’ll perform
Like we always should have.
I’ll lend myself to you,
Because I know it’s right.
And even though there are tears in my eyes,
I’ll never tell you.
You’re too proud for that.
We’ll sing together, too,
Because singing is what you’ve done all your life.
You may not have the faith to believe
That we’ll reunite, one day,
But that’s okay,
Because I have faith enough for us both.
I have to,
Or this would be too hard.
We’ll meet again,
And we’ll wear white,
And talk of plans we never made.
I hope you’ll be waiting for me,
When I join you someday,
And we’ll dance among the coloured flowers.
THE SEA STORY
The thick sand;
Layer upon layer
Of dirty, hard sand
On the coasts of the ocean.
With trembling hands,
And sober feet,
I squeezed the rocks
Between my toes.
A man soon came
To wish me tidings of the summer.
He told me that August
Was a goddess
Meant to be worshiped.
I shied away
From the interesting man,
And pretended I did not hear him.
He stopped me,
Sat me down,
And painted the picture of wind.
He told me of life,
And beauty,
And everything there was.
He let me touch
His wrinkled face,
So I would know how it felt
To touch time.
He let me stroke
His silver hair
To feel the universe
At my fingertips.
And then he sung
The ocean to me,
And filled an abyss
With salty, clean water.
I felt like I was everything,
Until he grew tired.
He told me he needed to rest,
And I understood,
Because my grandmother takes naps sometimes,
Too.
So he laid his gentle face
On my shoulder
And drifted off.
After hours of
Appreciating the sea,
I told him to awaken,
For I had to go.
He did not wake.
And so I sat,
And realized
That he had given me
All of him.
So I told his story
Again.
SPIDER WEBS
Spider webs
On cracked ceilings;
Or cobwebs
On cracked floors.
The latter seems more lonely
Than it ever did before.
Dusty nails and liquor
Spilled on windowsills;
In light or in deep darkness
You can see it
Slowly kill.
Laundry hanging off the door
That’s hanging off its hinges;
Remnants of the late late nights
Of broken-hearted binges.
A deep handful of wishes and a
Rotting body on the floor;
The latter
Seems more lonely
Than it ever did before.
SASKATCHEWAN
Waves
Of amber fields
Tickle the sky.
And as we share,
The growing crop
Is something to us all.
The fields of
Saskatchewan
Delight me.
I long to return
To the wide open prairie,
And run through the fields
Once more.
I long to wear
Something loose and free
Where nobody cares
How I dress.
I’m compelled to run
Through the open field
As fast as I possibly can
And let the wind
Whip at my face
In the yellow summer.
I long for cold winters,
And hot-chocolate scenes
Of community.
A sense of belonging
Where we can all say
“We’ve been there.”
I long to return
To my birthplace,
My home.
I long to return
To Saskatchewan.
UNNAMED RANDOM WRITING
A small silhouette stood out against the sunset, as it closed in on the coast. The dark figure’s hair blew like a flag in the sharp wind of dusk, displaying its deep pride. In the distance, on the water, the black flag of a ship blew too, mirroring the small girl’s sentiment. The scene was dark, but for the light of furious oranges and reds of the sunset, burning across the sky and reflecting in the water, reaching and spreading in its wrath, then receding in angry defeat.
The girl, young in years, old in mind, pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them as tightly as she could. Her bare feet and bare hands were burning with cold; she found it refreshing. Her long nightdress gathered up around her feet for some shred of warmth. She spread out her toes and gave a long and dreamy sigh, wondering what the world was.
It took her a while to even notice the shadow of a ship crawling closer and closer to the shore. When it first grabbed her attention, she stared at it with cautious curiosity, which evolved into impish delight. She looked behind her to make sure no one was there, and then she half ran, half rolled down the steep hill to the lower beach.
ROSEMARY AND TIME
The thick foliage of my garden
Makes way for sullen weeds.
Time has allowed the greenery
To pass.
That’s where we used to sit together,
Among the herbs.
You used to tell me
How I smelled of beauty
And earth.
You told me my lips
Were like the roses
That flower among the rosemary,
As though we were in an old movie.
And we laughed
At how dumb we sounded,
And how your friends would laugh at you.
Then I’d invite you in
For some lemonade.
I’d pick some herbs,
And walk through door
All covered in chipping white paint,
And we’d feel like we were everything.
I’d serve you cold drinks,
And make you hot meals,
And we’d talk and laugh until it hurt.
But the rosemary and time have passed.
You were drafted,
And we drifted apart.
After years
Of sitting alone among the dying herbs,
I grew tired
Of waiting for the war to end.
I met a boy
Who was kind, and sweet.
We danced and slept together,
But I always saw your face.
You came home,
And I stopped seeing him at once,
But things were not the same.
Your face was weathered,
And you couldn’t walk.
You couldn’t step into my kitchen
For lemonade,
Or dance among the flowers,
Or sit among the herbs.
I stopped picking sage
To cook your dinner,
And I think I stopped loving you.
It wasn’t because you were crippled;
I could live with that.
It was that you stopped being you.
The things you’d seen,
And the things you’d lost,
Had changed you so well.
I didn’t like who you were.
So I gave you up,
But I’m still in love with the memory of you.
And now I’m old,
And covered with time,
And I smell of thyme,
And my wrinkles are deep in my features.
Here I am,
Sitting among the rosemary and time,
And remembering you,
And our lemonade,
And our love.
GENERATIONS
The running river froze with ice,
And still, and still, I held his place.
I called his name, but once, but thrice,
But Eternity! in thickness stewed its grace
And fell upon its knees to pray
The handsome songs of nether-day.
The moonless waves fell ill with cold,
And pleasure borrowed from its sheath;
For once, never was the story more told
Than the contrast of charcoal with ice beneath.
Dancing on the blades of steel,
A little girl fell hard and fast.
Her pure white dress, as she could feel,
Was crusting, dusting; it was the last.
Times were hard, life isn’t cheap,
So go to sleep now, count your sheep.
She hung her heart out there to dry,
And let the yellow warm wind blow.
She told herself she’d never cry,
And let herself die, die slow.
All the world is such a whir,
Wish you had no frozen fears.
Have a heart, dear special girl,
Blinking down your sullen tears,
And wishing for the break of day;
Little hands will fall away.
Dancing through, and feeling dead,
Never feel free to fly.
Rest your head now, go to bed,
Cry your little lullaby.
MONOLOGUE
Eating freezies in bulk and sporting henna tattoos, we spent that summer becoming who we are. You may forget, but I remember. I remember how we spent more money on that sparkling lemonade than we made at our stand. You put in five dollars, and I put in twenty. We pooled our money, lost four dollars, and split our winnings 50/50.
I remember spending that summer eating kool-aid powder off our hands, dying our skin orange and purple and red. Freezies, too, but only the liquid (we were too impatient to wait for them to freeze.) God, we were on top of the world. My greatest memories were breaking out of my shell, becoming adventurous. Accomplishments like jumping off your roof onto the trampoline, and running from snapping turtles in the river. You took advantage of me that summer, how gullible I was. You told me you were better than I could ever be, and you confirmed it with every thing you ever did. Every time you skipped school to compare lip-gloss with the girl down the street, every time you ditched me to hang out with your other friends, you told me you didn't need me.
Now you go out late and drink, you hang out with friends and go to parties. We haven't spoken in years.
And here I am, six years later, remembering our lemonade and henna tattoos.
PAINT THE STARS
Paint the stars
Across my weathered shoulders;
Let the moons orbit ‘round my eyes.
Have the planets tuck me in
When I go to bed at night.
Let the sun greet me
When the time comes.
Paint me with the stars,
Press them deep into my wrinkles,
And throw the moon’s iridescent cloak
Over my crippled back.
Show me the heavens,
Have me caress the galaxy
And play with the universe
Like a child.
I long to touch forever;
I’m old and worse for wear.
I know it seems a mystery,
But I’ve no energy for fear.
You see, my son, the cloak of death,
Is just as warm as the love in my heart.
So let me reach up to the stars,
And know that I’m okay.
WHO I AM
Write from the heart,
Where every word that flows
Is made of something real.
Where every simple thought
Could be a metaphor, or imagery,
Or something more
Than you’ve ever understood before.
The trees could be your greatest friends,
A grave could be a memory.
For after all,
Our souls can speak
More than our minds can.
HAIL MARY
“Hail Mary, full of grace.”
The prayer worked through her twisted lips like a sin, testing waters too deep for her reach, walking down street too dark to see. Her fingers, too, they walked; they walked down my body, or rather rolled, and the rain rolls gently down the scarred city trees. She fondled my skin, let it play between her fingers like a thought. She fumbled for my hand, not taking her pale eyes off of my face. She was like a child, discovering my fingers, testing them and feeling them and seeing how they worked. She slowly moved forwards, put her lips to my skin, and rested there.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women.”
I pushed her away, gently, let her fall onto the bed. Her skirt was hanging off her hips, sliding down her thighs. The tears in her eyes hurt more than any weapon ever could.
“Mary, tell me you’re ready.” She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She whispered, then, as though afraid; “I don’t want the truth. Just tell me you’re ready.”
I stepped over and clasped her slender fingers into my palm. Her eyes stayed as closed as my heart was. I pulled her fingers up to my face; she lingered there. I shook my head, slowly, and every shake from side to side seemed to kill something of her. She nodded, eyes still closed, and pulled her hands back. I knew she was hurt. Then she let it all out.
“I love you.”
And that’s why. That’s why I told her I never wanted to see her again.
It’s amazing how afraid you can be of something you don’t believe in.
Blinking down
The smoking gun;
It’s not that hard
To whisk you away.
Tell me,
Hey,
What are we going to do today?
It feels like an adventure we’ve never had
Before.
The transitions of the seasons
Don’t let you go;
Go ahead, knock yourself out,
And never wake up.
I’m a fool,
And you’re a key
To the place I know
They keep what I can’t have.
Hey,
What’s the matter?
Aren’t we going to
Blow out the candles?
Slice the flesh,
Because isn’t that better
Than keeping it inside?
Or maybe that’s your way
Of locking away something else,
And seeming important.
No, walk away.
Wish I’d never
Seen your body
That way.
You’re a kid,
And I’m sorry
I couldn’t protect your
Neck.
You’re a castle
That I can’t breach.
How hard is life that we can’t talk
Anymore?
Mute that;
I don’t want to know.
(That’s the hardest part.)
And baby,
Stop trying so hard,
‘Cause you can’t let it go
That easy.
We’re trapped here,
And all we want,
Is to let you swell
Forever.
You’re already there.
Silence as a backdrop
Never inspired much confidence,
So I’ll push you down the stairs
To win that poll,
Or dance on the pole,
Or whatever it is you do,
Honey.
You love it when I call you that,
Because it sounds like you’re being used.
I tried to become
A part of you
To prove that I wasn’t made of glass.
I tried to show you
That there were rocks in my soul,
Piled up higher than
You could climb.
I tried to let you know that
There was more to me than
Blonde summer hair and white
Dresses, so I tried to make
Your eyes see me clearer so that
You could understand
How I felt.
When the sunshine spoke to me in
Summer-bleached hair and heat, with
White dresses to keep me
Cool enough to function, I
Thought I had it all figured out.
Waves would tumble onto the
Rocky shores beside the bay,
And I’d pretend it was the ocean,
And I’d tell everyone how I
“Couldn’t wait to move to
Boston, because I love
The ocean,” even though I’d
Never seen it before.
I’d been to the
Gulf of Mexico one time, and
I hated the taste of the salt water
Drying out my lips, but I told everyone
That it was the ocean and I had
Loved it.
I guess that was the biggest lie of all.
I don’t have anything figured out, because
I don’t even know what love is, so
How can I love the ocean?
I don’t know the ocean, either.
But maybe that’s why they say that
Love is blind.
(And I hope it can’t taste, either.)
You picked me up with
Strong arms.
At the bicep, they rolled like
Hills beside the waterfront,
And your elbows poked out from
All of your shirts.
Your forearms were long and
Pale, a newborn baby’s fresh skin;
A virgin to the sun.
Your wrists were thin enough that I could
Wrap my fingers around them when I needed
To feel like I had worth, but
They were wide enough that I knew
You weren’t brittle.
I’ve always been so glad you have
Big hands, because my hands are
Too big for a girl’s hands, so I
Always felt ugly and self-conscious, but you
Dwarfed my hands, so
I could feel like you
Were someone to take care of me.
I guess I’m kind of the
Man in this relationship, in some ways.
I burp louder than you, which always
Makes you look embarrassed, and I
Play with the tractors and wrestle in the
Mud. But you’re strong when
I need you to be, and
I guess that’s all I needed from you
To begin with.
The trees were growing out of
The rocks beside the shore, and
The saltless water of the
River gave them ample
Space to live.
Their branches kept the water
Shaded from the sun,
So the fish could live better and
Have more babies.
The mother fish always hated to see
Their babies die.
The animals always ran
Beside the river, to get from
Forest to forest without being
Exposed to the humans
Or other predators.
The deer would greet the river
With a gentle lick, and
Take some along with them
In their stomachs.
The wolves would playfully bite at each other’s
Heels under the trees and
The trees would laugh and shake their
Branches to play along.
Then the wolves would
Go for a swim with their
Thick coats, and not feel a drop.
Sure, they ate the deer’s babies,
And the deer ate the trees’ babies,
And the trees drank the water’s children,
And the fish would die on their own, but
That was all a part of their lives,
And they accepted it.
The corridor is gone now.
Trees cut down, river filled in,
Wolves all killed or moved
To follow the few remaining
Deer. But don’t worry.
Nobody’s expecting you
To apologize.
My grandmother wove
Every villagers life into
A large, soft quilt,
And every night when she
Added the day’s story, she’d
Tuck me in under it
And I’d feel safe.
Within a short time, the
Quilt spread across the bed, then the room,
Then filled up the house with its stories.
She started sewing outside,
So she could fit it all in,
But she’d always leave a corner
In my room
To tuck me under.
“Grandma,” I asked her one day,
“Why are you still
Quilting that old thing?
Just enjoy the work
You’ve done.”
But she didn’t answer,
She never stopped.
When she died, that quilt was
Donated to the local museum and
People would smile and point out
Their faces and stories.
I missed sleeping under it.
When I could no longer afford to keep her house,
I packed all my things and set off
For the East coast.
In the closet in my room,
Under an old wicker basket,
Lay a note and a few patches of a quilt.
The note said this:
“Here’s what I sewed
The day you were born,
That day your mother died,
The day you became mine.
I’m sorry I’m not there to
Tuck you in anymore.”
I live on the East coast now, and
Rarely visit that small prairie town anymore, but
Even though I have children of my own,
I still sleep under that quilt every night,
And I swear
I can feel her
Tucking me in.
Colours marching along to
The beating of their
Children, wishing all those
Pregnant, bare-foot ladies
Sold their souls to them first.
Whisper, softly, red runs away
As the rain hits the green and tells it
Nobody loves it.
Yellow tries to keep a
Strong enough face to
Pretend it’s not the colour
Of an old bruise, and
Their blue and black babies are
Crying in their pink and aqua bedrooms,
Where people pretend they’ve
Never been before.
Amber tears come
Rolling down their cheeks, as
The storm outside
Places orange fear in their
Tiny, malfunctioning hearts.
Mommy and Daddy don’t
Love them, because they
Don’t love their grey circumstances, so
Mommy and Daddy (or
Whichever one’s around) say
“Shut up now,” with dark,
Brown voices, instead of soft white
“Hush little baby,”s.
That’s the rainbow
You pretend you can’t see.
So he told you he
Doesn’t love you.
Didn’t you spend twenty years
Telling me that you knew
Just that?
So he told you he’s
Been sleeping with another woman.
Didn’t you spend the whole
Marriage telling me you
Knew it all along?
Don’t play the victim
Just because he said he wants
To send you the divorce papers
In the mail.
Do you really think he wants
To see your blubbering face when you
Sign your life away?
I sure as hell don’t, so
Go get a therapist to
Complain to about all this.
Because you can bet that after
Twenty years of this hell,
I’ve stopped caring about your
Stupid plastic marriage.
If you think that’s heartless,
Go get a pillow or a pet to cry to.
I’m sure it’ll care.
YOU DON'T BELIEVE IN JESUS
I. Dying Faith
The old house beside mine seems to have been getting greyer and more defeated with every passing year. This year, though, the garden fell out of order, the house seemed crippled with time, and I think it lost its dignity. It lost its dignity as its occupant, a kindly old woman, became more and more lost to her Alzheimer’s. The flowers in her backyard seemed to mourn the loss of her sanity; the prism of their colours faded and left overgrown, half-alive petals dangling from tired stems. I think that mirrored her; she couldn’t even fend for herself.
I never want to be that old. That’s an important thing you have to know about me. I never, ever want to be that old. I want to be old enough to be wise and have wrinkles to prove my years, but I never want to be so old that I can’t look after myself. I never want to be fed through a tube, to wear a diaper so I don’t soil myself, and to forget everyone who has ever meant anything to me. I never wanted to be my neighbour.
II. A Warm Decision
I was mowing the front lawn, letting the sun bake my skin and letting the summer days keep a smile on my face. The smell of freshly-cut grass was everywhere, and the green stained the white of my shoes. I was calm and peaceful, though distracted by the many cars lined up in my neighbour’s driveway. I kept mowing, though, and didn’t care all that much.
Two women walked out of the house, dressed in flowered dresses and with thoughtful smiles on their faces. My mom, who was cutting the overgrown bushes in our own garden, walked up to talk to them. They chatted for a while, smiling and laughing. There was a lot of pointing at our house, and my neighbour’s house, and at me. There was also a lot of nodding. Finally, the two women said goodbye, hopped into a dark blue van, and drove away.
My mother came up to me with the same thoughtful smile. She told me that our neighbour had died. She then picked up her gardening shears and walked into the house, leaving me to deal with this news.
I guess she figured this wouldn’t affect me. I’ve never met my neighbour. I don’t even know her name. I’ve talked to her children and grandchildren on occasion, who would give me updates on her health, but we didn’t have any sort of relationship. But if my mom knew me at all, she should have known how that would hit me.
As some sort of a sentiment, I mowed my neighbour’s front lawn, too. At one point, someone came out of the house and asked what I was doing. I told her, “I’m mowing this woman’s lawn.”
The person looked at me funny, and said “She died on Tuesday. Today was her funeral.” I nodded, telling her that I had already learned that. She looked at me with an even stranger look on her face. I think she thought I was crazy.
“ I want to mow her lawn for her. As a parting gift, you know?” The woman stared at me for a moment, opened her mouth as though to say something, and then closed it again. She did this several times before walking back into the house, stopping at the door to look back at me one last time, with the same expression on her face. I shrugged, and finished mowing the lawn.
III. You Didn’t Stop Me
Everything makes me think too much. I don’t know why, but I think all the time about everything. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a diagnosis for my brain, and its crazy thoughts. Either way, I think too much.
So sitting in my messy kitchen, eating a half-melted freezie, I was thinking. I was thinking about death, and how people die, and everything that entails. It was confusing, and I was starting to get a headache. And then my thoughts came to my dad, and how he would die someday (he’d been smoking and drinking all his life), and how I would probably never tell him all of the horrible things I needed to tell him. That’s when I decided to pick up the phone. I decided I needed to tell him these things.
I stood in my kitchen, dialing his number, and staring through the window at my neighbour’s defeated house.
IV. I Barely Remember his Number
My dad was shocked. At first I got his answering machine (he always screens his calls), and then I started talking. I told him that his daughter was on the phone, and that he should pick up because I’m his daughter, and it’s his obligation. Then he picked up the phone.
“Hey there, doll-face,” came his familiar voice, low and defeated. I shivered.
“Hi dad. I need to talk to you.” I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
“Sure, what about?”
“Dad, I don’t love you.” There was silence on the phone. The most pregnant, terrifying silence you will ever hear in your life. It was too late to back out. “I blame you for everything that has gone wrong in my life. I blame you and your alcoholism and your smoking. I blame you for leaving when you could have just stopped drinking. I blame you for making mom cry, and I blame you for making me afraid to show my feelings, and I blame you for being poor, and I blame you for everything. Dad, I don’t love you. I’m afraid of you. You’re going to die soon, and I won’t miss you.”
I was shocked at myself. Those words had poured out of me, unstoppable, and I regretted it already. How could I say that? How could I? My dad is fragile, and likely to kill himself. I knew that. I felt like Judas Iscariot, giving Jesus the kiss of death.
My dad doesn’t believe in Jesus.
V. Decay
My dad’s apartment had been decaying for years. It was dark and smokey, covered in broken bottles and piss from his late-night binges. In the last year, though, it had seemed to give up. He didn’t even try to smoke out the window anymore, he just let the thick, toxic vapours fill the room. He didn’t try to clean anymore, and it was falling apart.
The day of his funeral, I wore a flowered dress, and mowed my neighbour’s lawn again.
A whore with cheap lipstick and a painted face stares into your eyes. Her own are the deepest green, and her hair is the lightest blonde. She’s soft, almost fresh, she had not yet been so deeply stained. Her soul is still alive, somewhere under her cheap mascara and fake eyelashes. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes, takes a slow sip of her cigarette and a short drag from her drink. She looks at you again (oh, her soul is so alive!) and you know that she’s the one.
“How much?” you ask, trying to be casual, but shaking like a child. Your first time with a price.
“Fifty,” she says, unsure of herself. You agree to the fare, though you know it’s unfair; you’re low-balling her, but it’s a good deal for you. She’s almost as new as you are, and doesn’t even know what she’s worth. She doesn’t even know that she’s worth more than any hooker in the room. She doesn’t understand that to you, she’s worth more than the stars.
You take her into your car, real calm, real slow. Her fishnets catch on something, and tear slightly, and you smile awkwardly at her. You get in beside her, in the driver’s seat, and begin to drive away. She looks down, nervous, her soft, girlish pigtails falling before her eyes.
You drive her three blocks to your apartment and take her inside. She sits down on the cheap, swollen bed and tries to look enticing, though she’s shaking, too. You look at her, and shake your head, and explain. You explain how you’re going to take her away and give her a new life. To her questioning eyes, her terrified eyes, you simply say, "Don’t you remember me, Arienette?"
PRISONER OF HELL
| It wasn’t really silence. There was still the dripping from the broken pipe, still the buzz of the light, still the sound of his footsteps. Complete stillness wasn’t an explanation for the feeling either; he could feel his muscles twitching, see the lights flickering, and old dust was visible in the air. Still, there was something different about the basement that made him feel as if he had stepped into another dimension. He was entirely secluded from the corruptions and poisons of the world he had just left. A feeling of power came over him as he sat down on the damp, mouldy floor. The basement was flooded with dim light from the old light bulb that had probably been there since his grandparents were children, just enough to allow him to see through the crack in the wall which served as a doorway to another room. The tarp that had originally covered the old room had fallen down on one side. Rather than standing and walking towards the room with the dirt floor, he remained on the concrete floor. An indescribable panic was filling him as he stared towards the hole in the wall. His insides cringed and he curled over slightly. He wasn’t sure whether he would be safer to stay here in his panic, or run back up the old wooden stairs. Still, as he sat uncomfortably against the cold rock, he felt a sense of complete belonging. He was attracted to the feeling of fear in an odd way. He shivered uncontrollably. The tremor directed his gaze towards the corner of the room, where the crack in the pipe had been dripping water. He studied the pipe carefully, then the floor beneath; it was no longer water dripping out, but some darker substance. He crawled towards it, too afraid to stand. Taken over by a sudden urge, he lapped up the substance in a cat-like manner. He didn’t even have an inkling as to what the substance could be. It didn’t even strike the man as odd that his first instinct would be to taste the dark red juice. He didn’t remember what happened from that point on. When he woke up, his first thought was a sudden realization; he had been drinking blood. He went to splutter, having no idea how much time had gone by, but he didn’t have lips. He looked down, but had no eyes to see with, nor anything to see. He was limitless, and as he lifted away, he made out his old body on a dirt floor, head smashed against the wall, and the same blood that he had licked was surrounding him. It was splattered on the walls, and it stained the dirt beneath. Suddenly, he wasn’t floating away anymore; he was grabbed with a force that wasn‘t felt, and pulled down, further than any down he’d ever understood before. He could almost feel the claws tearing at him, snatching him, pulling him into the darkest of darks. His soul was being ripped apart as it was pulled down by the intense force. He could see his earthly heart suddenly floating in front of him. In a rush of passion, he made to grab it, but had no fingers to snatch at it with. With blinding pain felt all over his being, he saw it be ripped in two. It was the way of hell-bound prisoners like he. Suffering, forever, just wishing they could die again. He was a prisoner of hell, forever. |
SHE'D DONE IT BEFORE
| It wasn’t like she’d never done it before; the beating of two hearts together, and the grimace that appeared to the customer as a smile. To them, every moment was pleasure, something special. To her, every moment was another breath closer to her paycheque, and another moment closer to the day when she’d die. Gloria had never meant to get caught up in all this; she’d always wanted it to be special, and she’d never wanted to need it like she did now. It used to be a big deal, but now it was a nightly job. She was never really focused on her duties, just what it lead to; another paycheque, another fix. This particular man was extremely submissive. He let her sit atop him, thrusting as hard as she could, shaking the bed. She’d conquered many people in this room, people of all kinds. Why shouldn’t she? She came with the room, she was an accessory…no, she was part of the room. Which was the real her? She could no longer tell the paint on the walls from the paint on her nails. When did the curtains end, and her hair begin? The covers on the bed were just her clothes; she didn’t care if they were wrinkled, she didn’t care if they were on or off. She suddenly heard a watch alarm go off. She was startled by the noise, as she’d hardly been paying attention. She pulled herself away from the man and crawled off the bed. “Time’s up,” she growled in her scratchy voice. He put on a pout. “Just a few more minutes for your favourite customer?” he asked sweetly, fluttering his lashes grotesquely in an attempt to seduce her, to cheat her out of her money. She subtly wrinkled her nose in response to his attempts at seduction. She was in complete control of her sexual attractions. She didn’t need it for anything but the pay. “Blink as much as you like, sweetie. Just raise the tip, and I’ll deliver,” she thought as she crawled back over in her most seductive way. As though he were reading her mind, he grabbed a $50 from the wallet on the nightstand. “Will this get me another half hour?” “Nice try. More like another ten minutes,” she cooed, giving him a luscious kiss to make up for her ridiculously high fare. He shrugged his shoulders as she wrapped herself around his disgustingly sweaty body. “The next fix, remember the next fix…” |
MY CHOICES
| I write poetry. Not real poetry; Nothing beautiful, Nothing thoughtful or profound, Nothing that will make you look at my soul And wonder how I happened. I can't write the stars Or pour my soul into words; I can't make you believe in peace, Or love. I can't make you go out and shoot your neighbour, Or hug your friend; I can't make your world a better place, And I can't make you feel hopeless Nor desolate and despairing Nor joyful and at peace. My poetry is not real poetry, It's nothing beautiful... But I write it. Because that's what I do. |
FALLING, AIRBORNE
| Her voice, her soul caught in her throat As the wind buffeted her like A raven tumbling through the sky, and Dancing, with control and grace, but she Fell only with heavy lost dreams, like A rock falls, without hope for A future, because it Doesn't matter. |
TIME OR SOMETHING LIKE IT
| Time, it didn't really Seem real at all, or Like it made any sense, or Anything like that. It came in waves, and Days and minutes Seemed the same. They're all the same To me. |
TIME DOESN'T STOP FOR FOOLS
| It’s midnight, exactly, And the whole world is spinning. I’ll be waking up dead In the morning. I’ve got more to do, And time enough to do it, But I’ll still refuse, just the same. Because every day is just twirling around me Like a thought plays between your long, thin fingers. You’re dizzy and broken, But the colours keep changing And you can’t keep up with all these Self-healing games. The candles are dripping And the music is playing, But there just isn’t time to catch up. The clock keeps on ticking And you’ll keep on cracking Until you’re just dust on the floor. There isn’t enough Of you or of me To slow down the speed of the world. And even superman, at his greatest speeds, Won’t lessen the tick-tocking sound. The rhythm keeps playing As though it’s a song, And I’m wishing that I could sit down. My body is swaying To the beat or to death And the melody never really fits in. We’re broken, we’re broken, And the world keeps on spinning But at least we’re all dying As one. |
okay yeah.
