Bled.

I will kneel at the feet of the man or the beast,
depending on which one has his teeth sunk into me…
and when the lips peel back upwards,
to bear the double edged,
dripping red, set of razor teeth…
only then, can be determined,
which one I’m currently worshiping.
I can blend myself in with the white or red skin,
belonging to either clan through a split blood relation…
and when the day has ended,
to become the grey-scaled,
chain-mailed, cell of my own prison…
the only way that I’m able to stay,
shine light on what’s mine once again.
I can keep up still, alongside the fin or the gill,
towing my heaviest anchor and its affected blood-trail…
and when the buoy’s been rounded,
to become blinded once again,
the line of vision, breaths get exhaled…
the single-handed curse:
my belovedly bled best friend.

Portraits of the Dead.

A tendril invisibly,

wafting stealthily,

a hand-picked,

sentimentality,

flower bouquet,

rotten by decay,

aimlessly floating,

across fields of graves,

comes to me finally,

as I sit alone, sadly,

beneath the shade,

of a favorite pine tree,

and it falls gracefully,

at my muddy feet,

I’ve been drawing,

portraits belonging,

to the faces of the dead,

from memories,

held strongly,

in the spaces in my head.

 

 

 

 

The “Unsecret” Dialogue Chronicles – Part 3

A NOTE ON THE VOICES OF “S” AND “J”:
• “S” SOUNDS LIKE AN ADORABLE SOUTH AFRICAN (WITH TOURRET’S)
• “J” SOUNDS LIKE A HIGH-STRUNG VALLEY GIRL (WITH TOURRET’S)

Liquid noisily splashing against plastic sheeting in background.
J: So, uhhhh….were ya gonna tell me about the toaster or…..?
S: J…would you please stop stepping there! You’re making a mess – LOOK!!!
J: Sorry, oh oops…my foot was stuck to some Jello-y stuff that’s stuck down…oh shit…oops…
S: J! Stop fucking around and help me with the mirror real quick – hurry!… or else the dude you didn’t see yet becomes a problem for us!
J: Okay, okay…
slips and slides her way over to the counter and climbs up next to S, who is tearing off a sheet to cover the vanity mirror with
J: Bear! The toaster!
S: Right right…the toaster…

the two struggle briefly to reach all the way to the ceiling, as they are only ten feet tall – combined.

J: This is about your Gods damned burgle, isn’t it?
S: Huh? Oh….that….huh?
J: Don’t play dumb with me!
S: You do realize your own circumstantial lack of leverage here, don’t you?
J: THE TOASTER!!!
S: Huh?….

*The final sheet of plastic has been lain; and the two tiny creatures sit down on the vanity counter-top with surprisingly heavy ‘thuds’, one grinning widely and the other exhaling a sigh of frustration *

S: That toaster was well worth the money I spent on it, though – for the record…

J is totally distracted by a shimmer in a puddle of dark blood

J: Why?…how much did you pay for it?

CLICK HERE for Part 4!

The Monster Has Passed

Image

Um……er, wow….

I found out around 1pm today that my ex-husband/ Boo’s father/my attempted murderer/long-time terrorist of my existence died yesterday in prison.

What does this information bring to my life?

Boo‘s life?

How am I feeling about this new development in the story of my near-death at this very man’s hand?

The very first thought to pop into my head (and I’m gonna be very honest here when I shouldn’t necessarily be):

He didn’t die, somebody killed him.

The guy was in his mid-forties and built like a tank made of solid steel; granted, he kept a quite unhealthy lifestyle and a notoriously lethal illicit-drug habit last I knew him, so who knows? I don’t feel happy about his death, nor was I overcome by any profound sensation of safety or revenge. My long-time employer Mr. Karma didn’t even poke his irony-stricken face out to say “hello”, oddly enough, when I heard the jolting news of the death of one of my life’s Demons; I never flit the thoughts I’d expected to think when or if this day landed in my lap.

I feel like if it’s  true that his heart did, indeed give out and he died of “natural causes”, that any of my readers who knows a hint about his and my own history together – might also then, share in my sense of weight and mass on this matter. It’s a simple scientific observation that under enough weight or pressure – any amount of mass can give way to crumbling.

I feel sad for his girls, mine included…but on the other hand I see this as a possible release for each of them from a subliminal grip he has managed to maintain through glorified memories and pathetic, rambling pleas to them from his cell. I feel relieved, I will admit. I don’t have to worry about some legislative dick-sucker letting one particular and very personal monster out early on good behavior ever again.

I think I need more time on this all some more…poor Boo…