fiction, life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

her inferno

suicide-in-art-rosie--high

a voice

something still alive

someone trying not to scream

they make a sound that could only be described as an

oral ache

stretch of sinew, wide mouth, no noise, neighbors hear

nothing

there has been too much pain for sound

still tears come, when you think there could be no more

nobody knows, nobody knows, nobody knows

behind well constructed facade, beneath masks

the woman with her head in the oven

probably wrote a decent poem before she expired

smoothed her apron down, sent her kids to school

before turning the dial high

her own sounds of anguish and the hiss of gas

a sigh of sighs

the postman can knock on the door and you can open with a bright

false smile and he will think to himself as he departs, she is such a happy

woman always with a nice thing to say and a bright grin, I wish my wife were

half as content

close the door, gather the rope, sling it securely

the same woman who turns the dial high

prepares her demise with thoughtfulness

she is tutored at deceiving

sickness overwhelms her and she is on the floor tearing at herself

watching from ceiling, a woman unravel and be unable to re-knit

she feels in her solar plexus, in her very marrow, the scourge of loss

she can’t stand it, she can’t stand it, she can’t stand it

the idea time assuages pain, is a falsehood

hers is a road that will always be wet with tears

her eyes are closed and she is imagining how it is some of us

never stop hurting and others can brush off betrayal like lint

walk on unperturbed.

in the silence of her house, the clock in the hallway unwound

she feels the walls closing in, the very sky descend

all her madness like balls of yarn, have no where to pretend

they are okay

she is demented with hurt

voiceless, personless, no-one to reach out to

her arms are cut again and again with the switch of abandonment

she was once someone’s baby

she was once someone’s love

lapsing into unconsciousness in hot overflowing bath

crimson for her unshed horrors, streaking clean floor

did not need to use her own hands in sterile afternoon

washing line blowing emptiness like fallen maps

now she is dirt and dust and a woman without bones

she is sinking into the soft hiss of gas escaping gratefully

if she had the courage she’d light a match to guarantee

her inferno

she left one last message on one last machine

lost in time and the rolling hours curling their faces to the wall

her tinny voice breaking and crackling over distance

saying goodbye without saying goodbye

for even in death she pretends

everything is okay

and when you come home at 6

the table will be laid, your shirt for tomorrow pressed

hanging like a specter

its loose arms waving

in mute appeal

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Untitled #39

I forget

What I lived for back then

Maybe just hope

That indefinable future stretching unknown

It always baffled me how the young

Could give up and try to die

When there was always hope

And some sympathy for their tender years

I want to say to them

Wait until you get here

Then the going gets quiet

People don’t check on you

There is no sympathy for your failing

We’re supposed to be stronger

What doesn’t kill us, right?

Not true

Everything that’s destroyed me did not

Make me more resilient

That’s a lie we tell ourselves and our friends

Or maybe for some it’s a truth

Not for me

I feel with every battering less and less

Less willing to stand and fight

For why?

The illusion things will change?

The care that rarely solidifies

I am so good at lifting others up

So poor at building my house

Because I gave my faith to them

And made nothing for myself

Instead I hear, the voices of the past

Telling me why I’m worthless

And it isn’t just the past

It’s recent and the scar

Never heals

I am

Broken

I survived only to

Fall

I am hurt beyond description

I ache and feel pain every hour

Nothing I do seems to change

The sorrow of every day

It’s too easy to dismiss it away as

Clinical depression

It is not

I simply wish I could safely die

I wouldn’t even feel guilty anymore

I’m too tired to care

Maybe when you’re not cared about that’s what happens

I find it hard to understand why more don’t share my sentiment

I don’t enjoy life

I have no purpose

I have been left by those I loved

I stand alone

Not blaming anyone

Just seeing through

The bullshit

I wish right now

Life were a dream and death reality

An external sleep

No trespass no hope

It has long been gone

And I have tried for ages to hide my belief

There is no point

For whom?

There is a crack in my heart that runs so deep

Maybe it was all a mistake

I wish I could rewind until

I ceased and never had been

It is hard to want to undo yourself

As you continue to flourish

I am tired of trying

I feel that’s all I’ve ever done

It’s a bit of a delusion

Trying and being in pain

Why try? For whom?

If there is no one

I hear the bus

Letting off children

I remember

Being a child

I wasn’t happy then

It’s not who I am

My mother was right though she was wrong

Maybe I’m a lesson from which others learn

There isn’t as much meaning in everything

As we are told

Sometimes we just exist without meaning

And it’s ugly and long

Too long

I wish I didn’t know

How most books

End

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fiction, Uncategorized

The Time Travel Artist

I love my job.

Someone managed to change something. They shouldn’t have been able to. But, that is the company’s problem. Someone needed to die, again.

Killing someone is not an easy thing. Killing them again is even harder. Killing them the same way as before.

That is art.

Her name was Mary Harris. Nineteen years old. Strangled.

19:23 exactly. My hands are already around her neck. Not too soft. With passion, as before.

19:24 she is dead.

On the dot. Man, I’m good. I stand up and look around. The room hadn’t been wrecked. That is always an annoyance. A simple strangulation. I look down at her. Turning blue.

“Sorry, darling,” I lie.

I would feel sorry for her, really. Her savior is in jail. Her killer is still unknown. But, I don’t. I feel hungry. I’m a professional. Only professionals know when they are hungry.

I study the room. I study the body.

One of her eye-lids is shut. I bend down and open it wide, just like in the picture. Sadness and terror, it says. I smile.

“Now, that is art.”

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poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Empied of harm

Passion, you may feel it in obvious ways

How he leans in with his enveloping strength

Or, in the thunder of your chest, riding imaginary horses with your best friend

Forgetful of arithmetic and teachers who felt you’d end your days in borstel, because you did like running rings around them, didn’t you?

Regretting those petty rebellions later

Then in the crisp light and imagined stampede

Thrashing to the furthest point in your mind, bathed in fantasy

A place hard to reach, even splayed on cold Mexican tile, pretending your hand was his

Even, swimming underwater, until your lungs burned to surface

It was as if, once you grow up, the way back becomes harder

Like a secret language, only known to children, daunting you with reminder

The tree house of your neighbor, as you take the prescribed walk, your cardiologist insisted upon

The first rain lillies urging through Texan soil against all odds, their impossible fragility, an exquisite reprieve from cracked earth

Have you gone so far child? As to forget the combination? 

Here, where verbena and lemon grass, pummel air with magic 

Here, where you didn’t need anything, but the cupping of your hands, wonderment running through water, like you were born again and again, empied of harm 

Full of the vigor, of not knowing, the beaten path, to adulthood

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fiction, life, prosetry

After The Devil

17982849._SX540_.jpg

After The Devil

she chose a hermaphrodite

it was quite by accident he did not advertise on his dirty t-shirt

or the filth beneath his bittern nails

something about the sad premature crease

of his grief and a slowness when they sat

drinking in silence listening to Nick Cave, fingers entwined

an ugly cupid with smooth hairless face and small hands

he had more passion in his molten brand of madness

drew her out of herself like a needle filled with blood

why shouldn’t she feel again? she was only

half used up

the finger prints of her humiliation could not

come off in his porcelain bath but there was some comfort

crushed underneath a new lover

her heart after all was deformed

mistake and gore of nature in her grandeur

how unhinged people can hold each other up

understanding the slur of repulsion

he took a photo of her before she knew

her elongated labia was showing

his pot belly and marshy dark nipples

they were horrified to see in reproduction

the honesty of their cavort via camera

disgusting really

to be so young and so

imperfect

and such a relief at the same time 

his wrinkled penis was less than an inch and she

had the smear of Electra urging her entreaty

when he held her down and reenacted

the snuff films of Dario Argento

squeezing almost tight enough to come

she saw a momentary quenching of anguish

like a reverse motion water fall

his urine landing on her flattened breasts

hanging over her rib cage in thin abandon

open your legs he said and show me your filth and scars

and though she had read Simone de Beauvoir

and Luce Irigaray

she found herself widening them

into a vile parody of former shyness

go on then she said

eat me out even though I disgust you

because he was filled with mocking self-hate

his little prick useless for much else aside frotage

he gave the best head she ever had

bar none

maybe it felt that way

because they had twisted and turned

until their skulls lay beside them

watching two ugly creatures

chew on their mutual sorrow

 

 

 

 

(thank you all at Hijacked Amygdala)

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art, fiction

Darla’s Miniatures

Darla stood over the little sleek purple box. She opened it, trembling.

The miniature looked up at her. Darla smiled.

“Hello, Mother.”

The Miniature stood up and bowed. “Hello, Master Darla,” it said, professionally.

“Oh mother,” Darla blushed, “call me sweetie would you, like you used to.”

The miniature of Darla’s mother complied. “How might I serve you, Sweetie?”

Darla smiled, they had the same voice, the same plump nose.

“I thought I lost you, mother.”

“I’m here, Sweetie, to serve.”

“Will you read me a story, mother?” Darla asked.

“What story would you like to hear?” The Miniature of Darla’s mother asked.

“Oh, you know…” Darla said, coyly.

The Miniature of Darla’s mother frowned. “I am sorry, Sweetie; I do not know.”

Darla began to cry. The miniature stood and waited, confused.

“You’re not her, you’ll never be her,” Darla moaned, lumpy spit dribbling from the edge of her mouth. “You’ll never be her!” Darla reached down and grabbed the miniature off the table. The Miniature didn’t struggle, at first.

“How could I be so stupid!” She squeezed harder. “Sweetie, you’re hurting me,” The Miniature tried to explain. Darla held tighter.

“I knew it, I knew it. Look at you!” Darla pointed one large soggy eye at the miniature of her mother and it went cold.

“You don’t even look like her!” Darla growled.

The Miniature of Darla’s mother began to choke. The Fuhrer taught to never harm your master. Never. But, The Miniature reacted without thinking. She bit down on Darla’s hand. Darla let go with a roar of pain. The Miniature fell to the floor. Without thinking, she ran. The body of Darla’s mother was not a good one. It moved slow. She found her way into a room beyond the kitchen.

Darla was moving now. She lumbered after. The Miniature ran deeper into the room. It stank. The Miniature looked around for a place to hide and found another human laying in the bed.

“Help!” The Miniature cried. The slumbering human didn’t move. The miniature climbed the sheets and rolled until she was pressed up against the human. It was cold.

Darla was in the room now.

“WHERE ARE YOU MOTHER!” she cried, cleaver held in her left hand. The Miniature crawled up the cold figure using its ear as a foot hold. As it reached the top it perched on the plump nose.

Darla stood over the corpse of her mother and stared at The Miniature, cleaver raised.

“Why don’t you love me mother? Why have you never loved me?”

The cleaver came down on the chest of the corpse, blood exploded. It was cold and purple.

The force of it caused the corpse’s mouth to flop open. The Miniature dove inside. It was still wet. Darla continued to hack away at her mother’s corpse. The Miniature stayed inside the mouth, a cold soggy womb, waiting to die. After a minute the earthquakes stopped. The Miniature had never cried before. She did now.

Through her sobs she heard a thud, then weeping.

The Miniature slid her head past the teeth and looked out. Darla lay slumped against the wall, covered in guts, keening.

The Miniature crawled out over the blue lips and slid down a blood, spit, and tear soaked cheek. She made her way to the floor as Darla continued to weep. She headed for the door.

“I’m sorry mother, I’m so sorry” Darla mumbled through her tears.

The Miniature stopped. She looked over at Darla, then to the door. She sighed.

She sidled over and touched Darla’s leg, softly. Darla looked up.

She reached out and scooped The Miniature up in her hands. She brought the miniature to her bosom and held her.

“I love you mother,” Darla whispered.

“I love you too Sweetie, I love you too.” The Miniature of Darla’s Mother closed her eyes and smiled.

END

More about the Miniatures:

mengel_39_s  mengel_39_s_interview ford_39_s_miniatures mengel_39_s_play

 

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