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Foliage

adult backbone black and white dark

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Ever notice?

It means nothing to them?

those girls with peaches and cream, café au lait, peau de couleur foncée

their lush hair, plump calves, rosy cheeks

kiss us like they mean it with open mouth, little inquiring tongue

force of two coming together, chests heaving in sync

who knew straight girls could give so much in the heat of a moment?

unhooking bras, peeling underwear, knowing they’ll be kissed where

their boyfriends press with lack of ardor

for we girls are midnight foxes, we stay in places others only visit

fleetingly

complaining of neck pain, jaw pain, inability to know the ins and outs

oh we know the ins and outs, we know the inside curl and the convex

like a well drawn map

they pull their panties down for us so eagerly, we’d be fooled into thinking

they were of our same kind

save the removal of warmth, after all is reached and swept

beneath damp sheets for memory to play. Saying;

Goodbye, Bon Nuit. I must go now, it’s getting late, he will wonder why

I’m not at home with dry underwear

perhaps even opening herself to him, that very evening to atone

for her strung up, hidden outside pleasure

such is the girl who cannot love other girls and yet

finds only release in what they might know and give

surely one of the same mold knows, the key a little better

willing then, to bend and contort, stay for an hour in one position

without complaint

her breasts making dents of thin cotton, her fists curling like words out loud

the nape of her neck, slick and wet with her urge

she doesn’t reciprocate, her kind never will

she’s the impossible beauty, a girl who loves girls seeks

unattainable, disinterested, sinking to the floor in shame at

the concept of trading places

she’ll give you the time it takes to make her cry out

leave an imprint of her body against your mattress

the ink and glow of her skin a permanent reminder

she’ll never be one of you, nor wish

to lend you her heart

only her glorious body and all its angular expressions

only those afternoon moments

when he hasn’t pleased her or she

longs for your brand of deep caress, how you know

what to do to make her moan

fingers against fingers, thighs, hips, buttock

she is every shape of lovely from her arching neck

to the indent in her pelvis where she lets you stray

and play such secret music

things never to be admitted or spoken aloud

when you meet in public you are two women

buttoned up and indifferent like bleached wood

betraying nothing of her torn blouse or

the slide of her stockings from willing legs opening

how she pushes against you to enter her

fill with longing the bursting pulse within

you want to tell her you have loved her since

first meeting

when rain brought her to the library and shyly

you asked if she needed a towel and she replied

no I like to get wet, it never rains enough

her eyes grey and huge, like lamps in darkness

you think of teasing her hair from perpetual dampness

on her thin arms and how flung back they resemble

an instrument to be ravished

how you curl around her with your ardor and pressing

deeply fulfill your own needs against her loveliness

not shared, without return, a woman who will

pack herself away and leave by mail

like an unwritten postcard she is blank, unwilling

to be spoken

you stay in silence afterward

her breathing ragged, gasping you want to hear her

say I love you in every way, especially how you

set me alight with your touch and every time you

kiss me with your full lips I moan even more for

the core of your very heart

Lorsque tu résonne jusqu’à mon coeur

tu capture mon esprit pour le faire voyager

these things of torment

to a girl who loves other girls

and falls for a woman who is already

moving away

merely using your hands and your mouth

as if plucking leaves from a deciduous tree

to see if indeed they will

fall and stay

on the ground

 

Standard
prosetry

Scream Queen

In London no one can hear you scream.

You can scream all you like, princess.

Scream up Fleet Street, scream down Holloway Road, scream all over Clapham Common, scream up at Nelson’s face, scream along Blackfriars Bridge, scream out from the top of Primrose Hill until your throat bleeds.

By the time you’ve found somebody who’s ready to listen, you’ll have run out of scream.

I always thought that my screams were being ignored.

Now I know that, really, everyone in this city is so deafened by their own screams that they can’t possibly hear mine. Just like I didn’t hear yours.

Standard
poetry

Affected minds

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a glass place became a nice waste when driving her fist through she withdrew shards of herself, knives of reflection, betraying recollection, look away, look away, the van pulls up and takes you in muslin, you shall be wrapped and restrained with care, packaged into pieces and transported elsewhere

this place

antiseptic rest they call it

a hospital for affected minds

tired on the lint of life

some starve under careful watch, finding a banana, an apple, a lettuce leaf, too much, for stomachs wormed with trauma rebel their owner, food becomes anathema, soon the taste, the smell, the leer of lunch, packs a gutful punch of nausea and they would rather go without

some speak to people who have crossed over, from one branch of their mind to another and back again, in confused syllabi they spell out the murder of their intention, to lose on the warm waves, all sense of self and then fade, becoming sand, shells crushing shells until nothing is left

some wish to rectify the world and they are the most deluded, for their burning minds know no boundaries and believing themselves insightful they seek to turn the worshipers away from the fault line lest they fall and all together, collapse into the deep, not realizing it is they who do not fit in. See … the others, all along knew they were going to jump with faith, into the jaws of tune in, switch off and fake it

give me that injection to make me blind she often cried, when living became a hungered thing waltzing for purpose

take away this ache, forcing me to stay, awake throughout the sea-sick days, our ship will never dock, we will never embark, our journey covers all, who lie to themselves about why they wake up, switch on the radio, listen to the false news report inaccurate things and take it on the chin, tuck it under our belt, wear it in our hair, poisoning our being

we carry embryos of self-delusion like babies bibs to catch the drip, drip, drip of the medicated masses

we bear their children and coddle their rhetoric, babysitters to the rich elms of deception, blowing our house down

we are homeless in our worship, warm to know our way, but what if it’s all a fallacy and this just a game?

 

(Picture: ragamuffin77.tumblr.com)

Standard
poetry

pap-para-pap-pap-pap

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Art by Ani Castillo

A love affair that predates yesterday, when I swam pockmarked streets, where colours coalesced like dust motes in the air, forming nightmares or pyramids, and I swatted at them like flies, ah, the joy! of multiple orgasms that reverberate across the cosmos and turn my uterus inside out, while my vagina beats out the rhythm of creation, pap-para-pap-pap-pap, punishment is being invisible, our grandmother lied to us so she could send us to bed early without dinner, three women, past, present, future, I have them on my back, yelling out directions, twisting my ear, yanking on my hair.

 

 

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