life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Your misuse

They can tell you

Because you’re not going to back down

You won’t sell your sisters for a side ways glance

You won’t burn your bra, you may need it to strangle someone

You have the same look

All of you

The ones with green hair and multiple piercings who say fuck off before you smile

The ones who rule the world behind the scenes and nod as their husbands slip inside

The ones who are glory and begotten and forgotten and eclipsed and insist

They still live

You can tell

Even as they spell it out in myriad ways

I am not your slave

You do not own me

But once I was hurt very badly

By my father, mother, brother, sister, best friend, neighbor, uncle, stranger

And I carry the brand around my throat

Once in a while when I lean over

You can see it quickening

I may stay locked at home with agoraphobia

I may dance on tables in mock euphoria

I may fuck you and your friends for a glass of red

I may be a nun or an abstinent

How I express my rage

Comes differently

But inside we’re all the same

The whores, the moms, the teachers, the tree cutters, the little and the large the quiet and the opera singer

If I open my legs it doesn’t mean I’m over it

Or caused it or needed that brand

If you repeat the violence, it may be the carousel in my head

If I close them it doesn’t mean I’m frigid or need a bit of teaching, by you

If I’m a lesbian that’s not the reason, if I’m into men, I’m not guilty of treason

Underneath we are the sisters and brothers of

Your misuse

And our pain doesn’t go away like Oprah said

Our scars aren’t magnified if we think about it thirty years to the day

We’re not stronger for forgetting, remembering, talking, staying silent

Violence, passivity, acceptance, rage

We’re not weak because at 4 am we find tears on our cheek

We’re not strong because we take it and carry it around

We survived

Just like a rock

Covered with water

Will remain whole beneath storm

But whittle down with erosion

So slow nobody can tell

We’re not your beloved or maybe we are

We’re c-sections and sterility and STDs and shame in every color

We’re nymphomaniacs and we’re disgusted, we’re relieved, we’re open, we’re closed

We’re sisters and brothers of fire and brimstone

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poetry, prosetry

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move on / lord knows / had it up to here with emotion and tell-all’s / give me some false with my cornflakes and a little fake juice

if you feel sad because nobody is listening, tune in

the record you play is scratched and everyone has upgraded to digital

their headphones drown you out truth-tellers / sorrow-spellers / drowned girls and boys

it’s their whim, their fancy, to inhabit the glory and the cavort

who taught you they wanted to hear about you?

those flashy egos who seek grandure, attention, praise, affirmation

do they place their hot hands on your grief? or pause and seek

anything but you

truth, it is said, doesn’t sell

honesty makes us tired

we want elixir, we need to be uplifted

read to me, tell me a bed time story with a happy ending and lots of pictures

in the news; photos are more popular in social media than words

says it all …

speak, speak no more

and if you do, ensure it’s after you take your pill

for you belong to the tribe of wonderment, nothing less will do

do not rent your heart online

do not display weakness or fear

whatever you do, don’t expose how it is

paint over / disguise / laugh / get pissed

and when you lay there feeling that sliced feeling in your gut

emptiness and her counterparts

when you bring the shards of glass closer

when you realize this is it, there is nobody out there

in this 7 plus billion world

less is more, more is less

how can we be so inhabited and so isolated?

do ghosts walk our lives with empty diaries?

the ones who crumple on their knees in the street

who picks them up and who hurries past?

with scorn written in their jowls

more and more we hang our heavy hearts

in places of silence and neglect

the pegs of our support, thin of reassurance and tenor

more and more we lose our truth in betrayal

and counter attack

until like a game, like a digital effect

we are not real, we are chess without hands

our feelings so siphoned and lost

they exist beyond us

it’s only when we feel the edge of the ledge

staring down into leaden rivers

then we know it’s all a joke

this idea we’re doing anything of worth

and the words you suffocated

trapped in throats like unhawked phlegm 

never to be spat

what would they if they could, say?

please

don’t walk away

please

listen hear me

please

need someone who is not perfect

please

feel

something

the girls who have friends

standing with gymnastic straight backs

smooth waxed hair and plump cheeks

talking over cigarettes, turned on by a switch

everything is different

until a man enters the room

all eyes flash in unison 

he has power

the girls prioritize the phallus

the boys are drinking fluoridated water cutting off their

reproduction

soon sexless frogs will spawn harpies

would it be so wrong if

we stopped now

at the cusp of our cruelty

died out before another era came, crueler still …

dominating fickle lay of shivering wasteland

another creed, another judgement

the Mormons are the largest expanding faith in America

do your research acolyte, then ask yourself

progress? Really?

who progresses when others are held back?

feet on backs of the fallen, that’s the way they roll

with tarnish set on high

we are the crushed on whom aniseed devils inherit kingdoms

sometimes I don’t care anymore

I just want to get into a boat and leave the shore

sail away to something of Huckleberry Finn

I understood him and his penchant for solitude

it wasn’t hate it was necessary isolation

from the wear and tear of jitter-bug humanity

gagging at the hurtling fense

with their sharp and mercilless claws

step down falsehood

let the wild hare, the quick footed fox

take over

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poetry

China doll

love-doll-sex-orient-japan-silicone-4

To the man who is not going to get what you want

surgically enhanced tiny Asian girl with inflated breasts and pout

who will never desire

your greying belly flopping over uncool tweed

which you half realize when you consider

the absurdity of your haggard reflection

what you don’t envision, the harm of your penchant for fantasy

and how

you may be married but whilst you stray in your mind and locked bathroom

you are only half inhabiting the woman who promised

for better or worse

it is she who really wanted you

the one you now, judge with diffidence and boredom

while you build a private world for what you can never have

if you had money you could possess

but it still wouldn’t be real

only you wouldn’t care a damn

so long as she let you worship

you’re not fussy about emotion

an ” exotic” is worth more than loyalty or devotion

you’d trade your wife in without hesitation for

a new model with adjustable thighs

you can stuff her where she hasn’t yet been stuffed

have your dark-eyed children bound for Harvard

mount her on your wall, the eastern trophy of your success

who cares if she used you more?

despised your flacidity and milky sour breath

did you never catch her revulsion of you?

or was that half the fun?

now you’re on the wrong side of sixty

clawing for something bigger than yourself

every Sunday you proclaim it is God

then whack off in the bathroom thinking

of her glossy head bowed in prayer and what you’d do

given half a chance

you have lost your shame believing nobody can see the machinations of your lust

only they are visible and nothing else

not even the veal of your fatty heart

and she who would be your prize would laugh

chooses a younger man and gets a Masters in Economics

now you only have images of her to grope on-screen

hiding the stains on your underwear behind the heater

inwardly your ache becomes a boil ready to burst

infecting all that could have been good

at night, digging in disappointment

turning to your wife who opens her arms

feeling none of her love

touch you

this is the way of your modern

marriage

three to a bed

you, she and in-between

pornographic fantasy

her almond eyes and lithe legs

begging you to pierce your foundation

for playthings and illusion

the china doll

your fantasized upgrade

on faded obsessions with youth

and the grandure of coveting

empty images of passion

 

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poetry

On Pierre Molinier

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When you were called a radical

surrealism gave you the verb

wet mouthed with halitosis

a curse and a burn in optic

did it unleash the retina wolf?

seducing good in squirm and fetish

can a mask disguise your longing for repulsion?

duplicated pieces of man touching themselves

are you suspended in gory sepia

voyeurs blowing out candles on masticating cake

and if you raped your sister when she lay

dead and cold and if you slept with your daughter

when she said papa please papa don’t

is it any wonder you orchestrate your death

with pretension and the anus of the world

a specter in gruesome sin-eater

is this not what we love

and loathe

about art?

when do we become

as depraved as the sweating thought

enticing us to drop our boundaries

for one more layer of blancmange ?

Image: http://www.invaluable.co.uk/auction-lot/pierre-molinier-1900-1976-jean-meunier-:-portrait-175-c-7ff4005a3d

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