I will not be your blood blister
I will not be so abused I learn to like it and take it with a mouthful of sack cloth
I will not be your punching bag. Held by Devil for you to take your life’s frustrations out upon.
I am injured and talented at self-loathing but there is still fight left. The fight tells me not to submit to become, that smear of inconsequence you so desperately want.
Light is fading and we walk along rivers edge. You tell me to jump in, hand me the locks and chains, swallow the filagree key and cross your arms.
The river is swollen like an angry mother calling her children home. Trees weep into its corners like penitents and the sky drizzles its damp message through closed mouthed cloud cover.
I have lived 32 years and each one seems too long. The locks that separate parts of the river from each other, are black and painted with some type of waterproofing, I wish for a moment I had been waterproofed, painted shut and able to exist beneath, without air.
The dead watch with empty eye sockets from the other side of the river. They stand in unison, quiet and obedient to their demise. A flickering memory of times when they existed and tried to reach out, never quiet enough.
I am a child being baptized without a crowd.
A whore who has swallowed the semen of the river too many times and risen to the surface despite her tambourine sin.
I am someone’s daughter though they have long forgotten the birth and gone about their life. Wounds that do not exist cannot be licked, or didn’t you know?
I am the cross of a woman who alternately hates me, especially on Monday’s, when in her wrath she pitches me from her sight and turns to the wailing wall, the mumble of her faith, her ever succor.
I am your bit on the side. Eaten crumb by crumb, morsel after taste, tasty between mouthfuls. Always spat out.
I am untouched and lying in long grass in late summer and nobody walks past and nobody kneels down and performs the benediction over my sleeping form, and nobody takes their religion seriously, instead raping me there between the sun and the moon.
I am your mother. You hand me the green dress I wore on the night he beat me blue, and I watch my nipples pop through the thin fabric like expression marks, my long neck ringed in roses of hurt. He says he loves me, he says he wants me, he knows only how to harm. And when we fall, together, I hold you in, I stop breathing, thinking if I can press every muscle against you I will protect you from coming out, a long bloody trail across his perfect white tiles and his parents never knew, for crime is the easiest thing to hide.
I am a patient. My bed is starched and folded. I am broken and belittled. My tongue blistered from licking my own wounds. They said I wouldn’t make it. I hoped they were right. You stood at the doorway and clicked your fingers and something in me knew it wasn’t yet done.
I give birth. The child is still born on wasted sheets that must be burned. In the olden days they buried quiet dead beneath oak trees and they nourished the next generation. I breast feed the silence in my head and they all close in like crows, to shut my screaming mouth.
We lie in each other’s arms and you say; “I’m not like the rest” and I never believe that because I can’t believe anything anymore, but the sound you make when you say it and when I am inside you, stays like a long song in my fevered mind.
We visit the grave site and wild flowers bloom over where your bones lie. I push my hand into the fecund earth and think for a moment, you are there, reaching out.
The edge of love can be a broken glass in your jugular. The sin can be a salvation. We are riding buses to the end of the world and you only know how to paint because you have no time for effort.
How are you today? I am finding ways to end my life. I am counting pills in little bottles. I am watching stretch marks fade from pink to silver, each one a cry from you that was never sounded, across glassy water.
Dennis Hopper has a large gun, Keanu uses his hips, Ione only knows plaid and frigging. Lying beneath a wool blanket watching blow up dolls drown, they use their youth like elixir and it’s easy to believe then, it’s easy to wait and apply Chapstick when your lips feel numb.
I’m by the rivers edge and you are with someone else. I knew it ten years ago, I know it now. Instead of a knife I have a candle. It burns its hot wax on my useless fingers and they curl like paper boats when they hit water.
We start the car, the purr like a cat I once had, cleaning her kittens. I feel your hand pull up my skirt, it’s never smooth now, it’s always wrinkled and my hands look like shrieks against my numb skin. Nobody buys cigarettes from tobacconists anymore. We import our vice by the truck full.
I want someone to claim me, to reach in and save me, to eat me alive and spit me back into myself. I want you to fuck me with love and hope. But ghosts can’t smoke and they can’t perform cunnilingus and I am getting older now.
Too old to be your blood blister. We need to burst it and let it bleed, until I see, a way out.
something still alive
someone trying not to scream
they make a sound that could only be described as an
stretch of sinew, wide mouth, no noise, neighbors hear
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
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
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?
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
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
I survived only to
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
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
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
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
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
I wish I didn’t know
How most books
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.”
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
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
to be so young and so
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
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)
Darla stood over the little sleek purple box. She opened it, trembling.
The miniature looked up at her. Darla smiled.
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.
More about the Miniatures: