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silver-tinged twilight owls
with the help of lofty, fresh leaves
so too, do the summer's evening
winds whistle around
the empty park bench passing
through the p
Owl and CrowYour fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.
I Modestly Trudge OnMuck plastered and carcass ridden:
the earth is a burial ground
where humanity went extinct long ago.
And we, the souless wanderers left,
we hope for a new meaning, a new life...
We hope, and we pretend desperately
that hope is enough
to keep us human.
When the angel speaks, Mary dips a finger
into the wine, holds it out for the angel to taste.
This may be the last thing
of the world .... The angel's tongue
wraps around her finger, a string tied tight.
Mary wants to remember the cracked cup,
the wind fluttering like a trapped moth,
the taste sharp as a pinprick in her mouth.
"Chosen," the angel calls. But Mary is listening
to the scrape of an oxen's hooves
as he drags a cart, wheels crunching leaves,
the last thing .... She already knows.
She sniffs her hands: eucalyptus, pungent, crushed,
a bright thread tying her to this world.
"Innocent," the angel says. "No," Mary answers.
Go... Run! Go...
Release your hair!
Like fire horses
In the air.
Let them play with the
Let the sun make them
To the sky.
Which never stop to fascinate
With its depth,
That you’re ready
Dissolve till the smallest
Till the atoms of
keepsakein old boxes we keep
next to spider web walls and heirloom
small pieces of ourselves
hoarded like weapons from the
the shrapnel of unsettled palavers
for the right time on the wrong day
the right day but the wrong time
to echo sharp olloquies
thought erased with the analgesic
ebbing of time
salvaged from boxes
and back to the surface
like sickness in gingerale dreams
confined to the marginsapproximate silence has killed
our mystique with dancing out of time
to the physics of a ripple
See there's the girlSee there's the girl
The girl who's losing grip
Who is slowly losing everything
her screams of pain and sorrow
Fill her heart.
Do you hear her
Can you see her
Listen to her
Look at her scars that bleed
She means no harm
She's just dying inside
Help her before she's gone
Don't let her slip
Do you hear her
can you see her
can you listen to her
look at the scars that bleed
There she lays
The girl who cried out
the girl who everyone
The girl who did the permanent
Solution to a temporary problem.
DO you hear her
Can you see her
Can you listen to her screams
Look at her she's six feet under now
catch and releaseproselytizing disparate discoveries
opined by rusty keys
contraindication was a craze
that could rout us through these doldrum days
hegira fed and ostentatious
quicksilver in a haze
and drawn the perfect line, i've never
usurped the universe
but i can't spit out the hook...
She stands tallShe stands tall and brave
no pain is clear,
but look in her eyes
and you see
the mask of fear and
she has a secret
a small one
but it is big
she is slowly slipping
losing her sanity
her grip on that fragile line
she calls her relief.
You see a girl
that smiles every day,
but maybe she has a
secret one like no other
a plain to escape
she calls earth.
Above the kneeling angel, a sun dangles,
a ball of yarn. I want to unravel
what they did to me. Mary crosses her arms,
an X of blue cotton. They hung her son
on an X, cedar planks haphazardly nailed together,
no pattern, only
what has already happened.
I want prophecies,
warnings, road signs, a hand that scrawls,
their hands deep inside me,
claw hammers. Under Mary's blue robes,
red cloth drips, the folds gathering
into a puzzle on the floor.
The painter knew the end,
so he shaped the beginning so
there could be no other end,
no, if only I ....could I?
DepressionI visited my psychiatrist today
and in an office with no evident emotion
no obvious soul beyond a Gettys image
in a painfully drab frame
screwed firmly into a pale green wall
that matched the colour
of his uninspired suit
he told me
that people like me
he said that six months earlier
he had been told that he
only had mere months to live
and that he had been clutching, snatching,
grasping onto every second that he had left.
His light brown skin creased and
cracked as he told me this,
frail grey hair fell onto the lines of his forehead
and I said nothing
aware of my body swallowing itself in shame,
'So to see a person,' he sai
Nixon had his enemies,
and I have mine,
and for reasons it seems
you count yourself among them
but i'm sure we can find some reasonable terms
in the body of these mandatory matriculations
somewhere in the median,
of this semblance of humanity,
can we not surely coalesce?
like a mortise and tenon and calmly recite
common sense compartmentalized
[the new permutations on the plateau]
so if you'd please reign in your dogs
with their electronic ears and
and now longer beware of the darkness;
i'll share with you when and just how
slowly you'll die
The Gorgon's lullaby:The Gorgon's lullaby:
The gorgon sits on the rock on the edge of the world
she see's nothing but the dark sky, nothing there
she was all alone in the world
not one soul to comfort her
not a set of eyes to turn her way
seeing hatred everywhere but she says to herself
its going to be okay because i'm here with my sister's
these heavy hands curl around rocks and tree's
never to see another living soul
for if she does
she'll turn them into stone
where she could only stare but never have any interactions
the Gorgon's lullaby is the only thing that keeps her calm
as her wings stretch out behind her
she lets out a soft hiss
nothing else is h
Ding dongDing dong
A burning we will see tonight.
Ding dong the witch is dead,
pussy in the deep dark well.
Harvest a green witch.
Weak is the knife held by the child.
But the Greenman will sew up the chasm
which you planted,
which I plaited
Into a belly of winter wheat.
Do you have to tear?
I have no liking for pain
despite the scars,
despite the seams.
There can be no knowledge without the knife
but did you have to tear?
Covers can be pulled, but skin must be peeledChild, I beg you
Never show your second skin
For the world will turn up in flames at your very existence
And the only preacher who comes to your aid,
Will be one who favors in exorcisms
What's worse, loving the past or hating the futureAm I really?
Am I really an angel who was too afraid to fly so I lost my wings, never to return home?
Or am I a demon standing on my own,
Whispering lies only to me since I'm so alone?
Am I really,
The wind may stop to blow when Gods eyes lay upon me in disgu
Another preacher of confusionStand by me
Against the stars
And we shall see,
If heaven, in all its fury, may once again clone their missionaries of hate
Or hells death row pardons who were two minutes late
With Thanatos waiting patiently against the sideline,
And we will see who will take this so called soul of mine
DownfallI'm sorry I can't answer your cry for help
I truly am
But I beat dead horses of my own
The demon blood dripping slowly from the rim of my glass
So I shall continue pacing an endless road
Hopefully death will spend a spare millennium
PREY NO MOREPREY NO MORE
Rope dug into Patrick’s wrists as he struggled to free his hands. His hot, damp breath washed over his face, trapped by the fabric sack secured over his head.
A floorboard creaked. Patrick froze, his back rigid against the chair, and strained his ears. Another creak.
“Hello?” he called.
The sound of swishing fabric.
“Who’s there? Where am I? Why’d you bring me here?” Blurred memories swam through his mind: drinking at the bar; stumbling home; a shadow sweeping out from an alley.
Fingers grasped his chin and jerked his head upward. “Hush.” A woman’s voice.
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More