One Night in a Cave

Posted: August 1st, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

Everyone knows the kind of girl in this story, the kind that parties way too hard, goes out most nights of the week meeting friends in lewd bars and drinking up a storm, sometimes ending up in very inconvenient places at very inconvenient hours with very convenient people. Well, this girl is of that sort, living alone in a big city without any relatives basically on her own except for her fair-weather friends; she is independent enough, making her own money and baking her own bread, so to speak. She has a tiny apartment tucked away in a downtown corner in close proximity to many clubs, pubs, bars, and discos. One fateful night outing however, did not go as smoothly as hoped; a frightening yet eye-opening event occurred, as life will almost always supply those who do not know when to call it quits.

Before we go to the scene here’s a little background. We are in some nameless country in some nameless city; the city has millions upon millions of inhabitants, about thirty-million in fact and is hectic, sparkly yet grimy. There are businesspeople, models, pseudo-entrepreneurs, lackeys, chefs, government officials, prostitutes, every possible employment one could imagine all co-existing in this metropolis. The star girl in our story is a photo editor for an international group located downtown near her nook of an apartment; her pay is mediocre but she is working her way up getting more experience and perfecting her expertise, as she always says to her semi-preposterous fair-weather friends. She is a good girl earning a decent living, and by good I mean she is honest, straight-forward, never injurious to others, not a thief and always the right kind of rebel. She is someone you would like to have around, if you should chance to meet her; she will defend you and hold your hand when you are down. She does not see what destiny has in store for her this very eve.

It is about nine PM and she is just getting off work, overtime again. She punches out with her timecard and gets into the elevator with a colleague. He is British and typical in many ways, as the British men seem to go in this city; he is well-mannered when sober but post-intoxicated beware. He has somewhat curly sandy-brown hair and is a little on the pudgy side. The girl and her British colleague are in the habit of smoking cigarettes so when they make it to the ground floor, exit the elevator and go out into the recess before the street, both light up, inhale the nicotine and thousands of other chemicals deeply and exhale with relief, a day at work complete and now on to the night. Where to go? How about a pub not too far from here? Yes, it is decided; a taxi is caught they are on their way. The pub’s name is Oasis, near the World Trade Center. They are now sitting outside glancing furtively at the menu. Our girl orders a double Bacardi 151, her usual, and a can of Coca Cola with a glass of ice. Her colleague orders a Stella. Down the first Bacardi goes as soon as it appears; he drinks his Stella leisurely and vows tonight will not be one of those nights. They are chain smoking and the next shot of Bacardi finds its way down her delicate throat; she shudders but claims it feels good. The ordering of another double and the smoking of more cigarettes follow.

The Brit, Andrew, is about thirty-four and has a local girlfriend of many years; they subsequently will marry some time later. His girlfriend is getting more than a little tired of his drunken antics, and who can blame her? His cohorts with this certain star girl of ours especially alarm her as our girl is sultry and big-bosomed, the envy of all the flat-chested locals. Andrew is not unattractive and our voluptuous star likes the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and always seems so sincere when abstemious, an intelligent well-humored moderately knowledgeable mostly good guy with a strange obsession with soccer, or ‘football’ as he calls it. He won’t have a crazy night; the madness will all be left for our girl. In fact, after she takes two more shots and they smoke yet another fag he declares that he must be going, informing her that he has called another colleague, Aaron, an American who is married to a local with two children; he will shortly join them at the Oasis. So they wait; our girl disappointed that Andrew will depart, resents him having a girlfriend; our little photo editor needs company. Aaron, who is also not unattractive, will soon arrive, something to look forward to at least.

Finally arriving, Aaron persuades Andrew to have another beer on him, but really Aaron is just nervous to be alone with our girl…woman. So two more Stellas coming up! Our main character decides to slow it down. How many shots has she had so far? No one knows. Perhaps a cocktail this time…yes a gin and tonic with lime; she relishes squeezing the lime segments and licking her fingers. Aaron also smokes cigarettes. They talk, smoke and drink merrily getting more and more impassioned as their conversation progresses culminating with our star woman banging her fist in remonstration against the table asserting blazingly, “I am an American woman!” We never said she didn’t have spunk. Though Andrew finds this greatly side-splitting and wishes he could continue sitting here watching his she-colleague get sloshed his cue to leave has come in the form of three missed calls from his bride-to-be. He must go, but Aaron is here so the girl won’t be alone; at least he doesn’t need to worry about her. He stands closing his tab with the sexy waiter dressed up in beer gear ready and willing to serve any foreigners’ needs who is sexually objectifying both beer and herself. There is a melancholy goodbye and he is gone. It would be a dark night but for the city lights. This pub is no longer stimulating our present characters so they decide to leave; it is time for this party to relocate to an effervescent place with banging tempestuous music, dancing sweaty bodies included. Onward they go to a nearby club named the Luster Cave!

The Luster Cave is one of the seediest clubs in this city but our girl has only been here one or two times before and she has not yet learned the true nature of those who hang around these parts. The LC is situated in a very opportune place for prostitution and the selling of drugs; it is just under a footbridge that connects either side of a busy road. It is downtown, the seedy part of downtown where the African populace frequents. We cannot say African people are seedy as a general rule but we can say that these particular people who frequent this club and the surrounding area are seedy and mostly of African origin; that cannot be denied no matter which way you look at it. Our story is not a story of racism; this is a story of a girl we should all sympathize with. The eagles land in the LC; when they walk in the door they must go through a security clearance metal detector. All clear they continue walking down steps for this club is truly underground; down a hallway and through more double doors they go. Once in they can feel the pounding resounding of the disc jockey’s music in their chests, getting into their veins moving their blood in a new unnatural current both exhilarating and threatening.

To the bar which is in the middle of a large room encased by four bars lined with both men and women on all sides waiting for drinks and shouting at the bartenders who are mere over-sexualized glorified waiters; our star and Aaron are getting drinks, Long Island Iced Teas. There are half-naked women dancing on each side of the bar. The female partiers are dressed like foxes, hooches or hussies and the men are dressed either in business attire or hustler garb. There aren’t too many local men; the men are almost uniformly foreign. There are plenty of local women looking for foreign men but also foreign women, consisting of models and working girls just looking to get loose. I suppose in the latter category we find our girl, looking to have a good time and shake off the day-to-day stress, escapism; she isn’t looking to get hurt but then again who ever is? The star girl and Aaron are having a good time, sitting at a table talking, laughing and drinking. They seem to be attracted to each other but it could just be the alcohol though it appears they want each other. That is when Aaron tells our star girl that if he didn’t have a wife and children he would love to be with her, but after just one Long Island Iced Tea he decides he needs to go home; he lives a little out of the city and needs to catch his bus by a certain time at a specific place so he tells our girl that he must go and fifteen minutes later he is gone. Of course he asked our star girl if she was all right before leaving, and of course she said yes.

Our star is beyond inebriation now and has been left by both of her fair-weather colleagues; she doesn’t want to go home so she orders another Long Island Iced Tea and decides to mingle in the crowds, dances on the dance floor which is not too far from the bar, and has the audacity or bravery, to climb up on the bar that faces the dance floor and jive with the half- naked ladies lifting up her dress and flashing her bra to the dancers on the floor! She has really done it this time. She is completely free of inhibitions, doesn’t care what anyone thinks and is now in a state of mind where she could almost do anything. Someone reaches up a hand to help her down from the bar; she thinks he is being flirtatious but really it is just time for her to get down. She realizes his slip because the guy doesn’t remain to hit on her but disappears promptly into a swarm of people. Our star knows there is a foosball table in a different area of the bar not too far from the restrooms and she makes her way there. Who doesn’t love a good foosball match when wasted? She is pretty good anyway so she wants to give it a go. Here is where things get a bit foggy for our girl, too many Long Island Iced Teas and she is meeting strangers and is more distant from the DJ so she is freer to talk. She is playing and her partner is a black man from some country in Africa; she doesn’t remember. He invites her to his place to smoke marijuana. She accepts; our little photo editor loves her smokables and after drinking so much, combined with her loneliness and general disappointment in the evening, accepts and they leave the club.

Her judgment is not clear; she is stupid-drunk and isn’t thinking about safety. She goes outside with her new African friend; they get in a taxi and he tells the driver where to go. They arrive at his apartment; it wasn’t too far of a drive. Our girl is in a stuporous vagary. They get out of the green taxi and make their way up thirteen flights of stairs. There is no elevator; she is not in a nice area of town but that doesn’t register. The African, for lack of a better denomination, lets her into his apartment and shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t notice but he locks the door from the inside and hides the key. It is a studio apartment, no kitchen just one elongated oblong room with two windows, one at the back and one to the right of the bed; the head of the bed is against the back wall. Besides the bed there is a dresser, wardrobe, and a few in-tables with clothes and clutter everywhere. They get down to business. A joint is rolled; she sits on the foot of the bed being that there aren’t any chairs. The joint is lit and they pass it back and forth intermittently chattering in a friendly manner. He gives her a beer and she is beginning to get high and come out of her drunken daze. She sits the beer on a table and takes a deep breath, cigarette time. They both smoke a fag after finishing the joint. She is thinking to herself that she should leave soon but right then he goes in for the kill, trying to kiss her. He succeeds in slobbering; she pushes him away saying she wants to go. This is when he says no and pushes her on the bed groping, fondling and grabbing at her body. She fights against him using her arms and legs but he is much taller, broader, and stronger than her, nevertheless our girl is a fighter and she’s not giving up. All her strength implemented, no energy left unturned, though he keeps up the battle, trying to force her legs open. They are in a mad flurry, like fluttering contemptible birds in loathsome flight. Her only thoughts are, “I won’t be raped, I won’t be raped…” in ceaseless cerebral utterance. He realizes that she is determined and he cannot take what he wants without causing much harm first so he stops. She immediately darts for the door tries to open it but realizes it is locked screaming, “Let me out now!” she looks at him with reproachful derision, her mind scattered beyond measure of articulation. He refuses and forces her to come back to the bed and sit down. Her arms and legs hurt from fighting him. She sits down her wits racing like an ensnared feral; he rolls another joint and pushes it in her face. Shaking her head no he says she cannot leave unless she smokes it, agreeing she smokes but does not inhale. The realization that she is being held captive is spreading over her in a wave of horror, bemused she contemplates methods of escape. She must be careful or she may never get out. The man has a gold cross around his neck; she decides to try another angle, persuasion. She asks him if he is a Christian; saying yes he looks at her with bleak indignation. She speaks gently at first telling him that Christians are good people and do not believe in hurting others. If he is a Christian why would he want to hurt her? Her passion rising she claims to be a good girl with family and friends who love her, claiming this she tries to look innocent and deserving of life.

He puts on a video of Bob Marley in concert, glowing with emanating sound from his television screen. To this day our girl cannot listen to any reggae without being repulsed and agitated. He forces her to lie down under the covers and tells her that she must go to sleep otherwise he will not permit her leave. So she lays there her brain pulsating; after about thirty minutes he passes out but she still doesn’t know where the key is and is afraid if she stirs looking for it he will wake and become aggressive again. She thinks appeasing him might be her best approach towards eventual freedom so she continues to lay there still. After an hour and a half she begins to go in and out of her nightmare, a frightful haunted sleep in which she always remains alert to her surroundings. Maybe this rest will give her strength for what lies ahead. Some hours later he wakes and she immediately realizes and wakes too, sitting straight-up and asking him if she may please go now. He still says no. Tears come to her eyes; she breathes deeply and knows she must keep her cool if she is going to survive. She looks out the window to her left and considers screaming but is fearful of what he may do if she defies him. He rolls another joint and again forces her to smoke with him. He asks her to stand up, giving her a pair of jeans to try on. He demands she take off her stockings and put on the pants. He does this several times. Making her take off and put on, take off and put on different pairs of jeans again and again many times while he looks on, watching her, asking her now and again to turn round and round for him so that he may see how they fit her. Apparently he is an importer of garments in the city. Meanwhile, he decides to turn off Bob Marley and put on a DVD, a pornographic DVD. He stipulates that she must stand next to his television and continue taking off and putting on different jeans while he watches porn. An hour or two pass in this fashion; our girl is tiring and asks again to leave but he just hands her another pair of jeans saying, “Try these on or you cannot leave,” she doesn’t know if she will ever get out so she continues to appease him seeing that he remains calm when she follows his orders. Over by the window she can see the sun rising.

At last he switches off the porn and allows her to put her ripped stockings back on, ripped from their earlier terror tangle. Inner relief floods her; she can feel hope circulating through her veins but she dares not show her giddy anguish to him. He instructs her to sit back on the bed throwing a pair of jeans to her to put on, replacing her stockings under her dress; he begins to clean his tiny studio apartment, hanging up garments, clearing table surfaces of marijuana and beer bottles, organizing his clutter and throwing away rubbish. This takes another two or so hours while she sits there anxiously waiting. He begins to gather his things as if to leave and again her heart flutters with hope, “just a little longer, almost, almost, keep calm”. Keys are in his hand and he walks to the door; she follows close behind. He opens his door and lets her out turning to lock the door behind him. She wants to flee but realizes there is a locked gate in front of her barring her exit. He is going to open it saying, “after I open this you wait for me and we walk down together,” she says, “ok” but as soon as he gets the gate open she bolts passing him and down the first flight of stairs; going down, down running fast it seems the stairs will never end. She fears he will catch up with her and pull her back so she goes faster, faster fearing yet another locked door at the bottom. At last she reaches the ground floor and there is but a diminutive single door. Will it open? Her shaking but bold hand reaches for the door pulling it back; it opens and the light of day rushes in to the stairwell splashing her face with heat and newfound freedom; out she goes praying it isn’t too good to be true still half afraid he will chase her down. Running out to the street she immediately flags a taxi, gets in, sitting there as her heart nearly pounds out of her chest.

She makes it to her apartment not knowing where she has just come from, takes off the repugnant denim jeans the enslaving African man gave her and throws them down the garbage shoot, and jumps in the shower. She gets out, dresses still in disbelief of her freedom. She leaves her apartment, catches another taxi and makes it to work at eleven thirty. In front of her is just another day of work but her life will never be the same.


Darling You are a Feminist

Posted: June 2nd, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | Tags: | No Comments »

 

Darling You Are a Feminist

Everything is in another answer
There is no other question
Who is doing the asking
Who is defining your moments
Who is shaping, cutting, carving
your psyche, gray matter folds
your interior heart
your manifest mind

Who tells you how to be a girl
a boy
Who identifies the enemy for you
or your protectors
Are you the one who decides
when is it fair, when is it moral
when you should play with a Barbie

What is a feminist
Do you really need equal pay
Are you a sexual object
Why do you want to please men
Who taught you that you have no rights
that you should stay home and clean
that you are nothing but a baby machine
Who demanded you be subservient and not run for office
Who said it is impossible for you to be good at math or science
Who said you should be a nurse instead of a doctor
Who told you that you can’t be an astrophysicist

Why do you want to play house
to get your paycheck from a husband
Why do you want to be a child in your own home
Why do you say you aren’t a feminist
Who told you feminism is an ugly word

Darling if you want to vote then you are a feminist
Darling if you want to attend university and have a job then you are a feminist
Darling if you do not want to be raped, objectified
have your genitals mutilated, then you are a feminist
If you want the right to determine the path of your life
Darling you are a feminist


Memory Lane

Posted: May 28th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | Tags: , , , | No Comments »

 

~~~

It is at Clearwater Beach, Florida, on a sunny afternoon in the year of 1986. I am about eight months old. I don’t have too much hair on my pretty little head, just an amount equivalent to that of an old man, but my hair is not gray nor white with age; my hair is blonde and soft, fair like a little pixy devil. My eyes are blue and round like beautifully placed saucers in my small white head. I am an adorable child, a beautiful child. I am the daughter of my mother, who is also beautiful with big blue saucer eyes that sparkle and allure everyone. My mother has more than beautiful eyes; she has a bodacious figure, five feet nine, slim and curvy all at the same time, and beautiful ivory skin.

Today she is wearing and iridescent bathing suit of light pink and purples, one piece, that goes up high on the sides to expose her bare hips. Her hair, naturally straight and light to dark brown, is dyed a bit and wavy from a past perm, cut to just above her shoulders, the feathered type fashion of the 80s in the US. Yes she is gorgeous; no one doubts her daughter will likewise grow up to be beautiful just like her, but there are pains that come with beauty just as there are pains that come with ugliness. We are at the beach; the sun is shining, a truly lovely day. The waves are just right, the water is appropriately cool and fresh, seagulls are making their rounds swooping down here and there in teams; their sound can be heard and it adds to the atmosphere of sun, sand, wave, and seagull, a truly perfect day at the beach. My mother, grandparents, aunt, uncle and I are all there, enjoying a holiday together. Some other relatives are joining later as well. It isn’t certain if this is my first trip to the sea or not, but certainly this is my first memory of the sea, really my first memory of anything.

The first memory of a life, what a treasure to behold. The gatherers are scattered about, either in the hotel rooms, or out walking around somewhere exploring the nearby roads of the city. Only my grandmother, and her two daughters, and I are on the beach out playing in the sand and sun. They want to take me swimming, expose my little creature-like body to the great expanse of sea, dip my delicious little legs into Triton’s vast deep blue. My young mother, only seventeen years old, picks me, her progeny, up and holds me in her arms, walks me over to the bisque cusp of the sea and slowly wades in with me on her hip.

People always wonder what babies are thinking, but only the baby knows for sure, yet this is but a memory and memories tend to be skewed. Here is what I am thinking in my tiny head, “don’t drop me don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I am absolutely terrified beyond belief. I don’t trust my mother; all I can see is water underneath getting higher and higher, grabbing at my mother seeking security I cannot find. Security I am longing for and desperately scrambling for, I can not feel safe, thinking, “don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I have nothing but fear and anxiety….

…and this is my first memory. A snapshot was taken on this day of my mother holding me before the sea; it can be found in my home somewhere in some box hardly noticed, perhaps my family isn’t even sure where the photo is located, but it resides somewhere, in the place I call home. In the photo can seen my beautiful mother with a proud-looking smile on her face, and me, scared on her hip clinging to my mother with a nervous anxious grimacing face.

 ~

No one could have predicted in just a matter of two weeks, this mother and daughter are in a horrible car accident. The mother breaks a leg, suffers severe eye damage for which she would later undergo many surgeries to correct, brain damage…in the part of the brain that is responsible for personality, and experience a coma. The daughter breaks both her legs and is put into an almost- a- body cast all the way up to her chest and down to her little toes.

                                                    

~~~~

It is night time and my mother wants to go to a bar but my grandparents won’t babysit me, so I have to join; only my mom can’t take me in so I have to wait in the car. I am under five years old, of course, as I am in almost every story that involves my real mother that I can remember. I am in a parked car; I think it is winter because I remember I am wearing some kind of coat and blue jeans, little girl blue jeans that snap instead of buttoning at the top. It is either a car or a truck; I am not sure, but I just stay in the front either way, in the driver’s seat. It is getting late; my mother is taking a really long time; I am all alone and it is dark outside. I am crying, not a soft gentle cry but a loud painfully devastating kind of cry. If others were looking on from outside they would have been so alarmed by this sight of a little girl locked in a parked car balling her eyes out all alone. “Where is her mother”, they would ask and they would look at me thinking “oh my god that poor dear!” and surely call the police. I am not sure if anyone sees me or not, but I ball my eyes out just the same. My mother is taking so long that I need to urinate. Maybe that is why I am crying. I have to urinate but I cannot get out of the car. I know it is wrong to pee anywhere besides a toilet so I am in distress; I don’t know what to do. Finally it becomes too much for my little bladder to bear, and, still crying, I pee all over myself in the car. To bring back this memory is still heart- breaking to this day; I feel great pain in recalling it. It makes me want to cry, but I think, she was so young, merely a child herself. How can I expect her to have acted differently? She was who she was, wild, troubled no doubt, free-spirited, and rebellious; at least this is how I imagine her to have been. I am sure if she had lived and I brought this peeing-in-a-parked-car incident up to her, she would have felt only the kind of remorse a mother can feel, when she has not raised her child the best that she possibly could have.


The moon is behind us

Posted: May 2nd, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | No Comments »

It is illuminating the sky
But we don’t look back
We watch the pebbles aground
as we meander on a forgotten
shore of plunder, piety unfound
You look like Santa
Why do you do that?
I will never understand
your hidden groves and orbicular
hooves

Danger is a masked friend
that goes to all the most-fashionable
ladies gallerias
She marches in with her bell-shaped dress
sashaying tether and thither

We live in a glass globe
The outside is dust-covered
mourning because no one looks
All are living and breathing inside
stuffed in bags with polyurethane
Taped for transit
alcoves brimmed with masters
lurking in the seaside-caves

Where do you get your Eve’s Ale?
Must you go bucket in hand to the well
Sliding the rope through your balmy fingers
See the shinny trickle and think
Life blood, circulating
How underappreciated are the elements
They follow fast-sucked down drains
Oil residue transcendence, naught
Sludge underground, visits the rat army
Flaked with soot from centuries of soil
Cataclysmic doom….
She smiles on, momentarily forgetting
Or accepting her fate


Corpsicle Star

Posted: April 6th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | No Comments »

Lick remedy from your finger
Doesn’t it taste pleasant?
Like retinal strain and phony compliance
Chunks of non-dilutable coffee powder
Sticking to your murky brow
Flecks of undiscoverable asteroid
Exploding in your intestines
Bleeding dark matter into your emotions
Head slumped you face an evaporating void
Floating in space, dying to crumble, contract
Schism into non-existence
But it isn’t your choice to be or not
What occupation is worthy of
Undesired flesh?


brothels

Posted: March 10th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Sex | Tags: , , | No Comments »

How many brothels are in London? Why must police need performance incentive to take action against criminals? Why do people continue to find historical slavery appalling yet at the same time ignore modern day slavery? Why do people remain indifferent while millions of women, men, and children are suffering? Why is there such a lack of awareness about the issue and scale of human trafficking? If millions are forced into lives of degradation, who and how many are the people forcing them into it? Why would authorities and common citizens turn a blind eye? With so much sexual exploitation of women and children we must ask, what is happening with men? Why are men desirous of these types of actions? How many men are aware that so many prostitutes in brothels are actually being held against their will?
Men make the excuse that they didn’t know the women were being forced into this position, but this is a falsity…for there are men who, when with a prostitute sexually abuse and even kill the prostitute, certainly they know a woman would never willingly subject herself to this abuse. Then we must consider those men who capture the trafficked women, who force them into captivity and who rape them repeatedly before the women, or children, are even put into the market. These men do not care about the physical well-being of the individual woman or child; they do not care if she is in pain. They only think about their desires for sex, power, and dominance; what is causing the world to be riddled with these types of men? What is causing men to become like this? What makes men so bad? What makes people in general bad? What social constructs are being instilled that cause people to form behavioral tendencies that endanger others’ human rights? Where does this horrid lack of empathy come from? How are men able to be violent without for one instant sympathizing with their victim?
UKBA believes those trafficked are there by choice instead of forced and exploited.

“anti-slavery legislation aimed at requiring companies with turnovers above £100m a year to publicly disclose the efforts they are making to ensure that their supply and product chains and business practices are free from modern slavery.” http://www.guardian.co.uk/law/2013/mar/09/shameful-failure-slavery-trafficking-uk
March 10, 2013


They met when she was 13.

Posted: January 17th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

They met when she was 13. He was different from the other young people around her. He was in her world but he was different from all the others. He made being different cool, before him, the only way to be cool was by being like everyone else. She was crazy, sure, but…with him that was okay, even valued. So she would talk to him late at night, while she got drunk at a very young age, feeling the flawlessness of youth, as if this very thing had never happened before, as if it would never happen again. She had phone sex with him. He said at first he was faking it, then got into it later. Didn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Yes and she wanted to die, she always wanted to die.
It doesn’t matter.
She doesn’t know who she is anymore but when she listens to old music, she remembers who she used to be…and still feels that self somewhere, deep down inside her, and wonders why doesn’t anyone recognize her….when she moves to a foreign country?
But she was a little girl once, a pretty pretty girl.
So she knew this guy in middle school…then later in high school. Under completely different pretenses. Sunflowers and friends abound. Love and wet flowers, blades of grass sticking to your thigh. Eggs and coffee, more lost feelings, didn’t matter…the next escape happened.
Then again, why on earth must everything be repeating? This last time though, damn. Joined at the hips and seemingly at the minds in some zone. No matter the feelings, things always go away. She wants to say, thanks to you….she told me to let you know. You son of a gun, she told me to let you know.
You told her that you love her, then you gave her some of your qi. You expelled it. You defiled her with your insincere blasphemous ejaculate.
But you aren’t guilty, not any more than anyone else is…probably even less, but it still isn’t good.
It is faulty and unremarkable. It is what every…typical of…someone who is so dying to live, is expected to be. Pure mirrored coolness. Nothing but cold water dripping
And what you really wanted to find in the bathtub.
Heaven knows…it doesn’t matter.


vague spray

Posted: November 18th, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | No Comments »

I have the moon but not the sky
I am the yoke without the egg
I have the sparkle but none of the star
I have the diamonds in your eyes
They are in my pocket

I can take it all away from you
I can hear nostalgic tunes
And turn them into smells
Atrocities beckoning from past shores
We cannot wash away the sand
In our bellies and under our noses

All inclusive love munch
Bunch them all into one
Bouquet of candy tantalizing
Rusted roses
When you don’t want other people
Ever to see your groove
Flee

The fire is rising, bons usher in death
And reviving of the soul
The non-existent human essence
Lies in what we create
Reverberations
Calamity manifesting in circles
Under your eyes
And on your pillow
The soft one you call honey

She can’t make you
She can’t make you come
Trapped and deflated
But it is looking up
Under dawn, laying in a circle
Fumes of synthetic life
And nodes of rhythm
Fixate, under your night shade


supression of…

Posted: June 28th, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | No Comments »

The arc of your dress
The shape of your body
Your mind pressing into me
Sweat, muscles, pumping
Tiring, drenched
Stupid people, always the
Stupid people
And your stupid jokes that…
Aren’t funny and no one…
Laughs, foolish girl.

There is a room waiting, where
A clown sits on a wooden
chair. Dressed up in rainbow
Wig, big red nose, blue laced up boots
Green smile and purple eyes.
Smug grin, no one can see anything.
Like looking at a flower and…
Saying it’s a star. Seeing a star.
What are you doing here? My vase
Is….lacking fundamental material
To hold a star up.

Speaking, chatter, inhale, exhale
Swarming of words, social interaction.
Pulsating with weighty meaning.
Flexing in and out ignore all.
Lose track, get micro, then macro.
Fall into your own mind, thoughts, be…
Trapped, never can you get out.
Don’t listen, cringe, hide, turn away.
Create utter oblivion; it isn’t so hard.
Already, that is all that exists.

All you can do is be quiet, stop the
Internal beast, the one that
Forces you to see what there isn’t
To create what their shouldn’t, needn’t be.
Analyze, strategize, paint, morph, melt. Die.
See it all, understand little. Choice
Of destination, choice of vision. Twilight
Midnight, stars or Hills, tumbles
Or careful precision. Everything
Mixed, one global pot, eat from all.
Impossible to try the complete magnitude
Always your senses will not be enough.
Choose your sight, mind’s eye, third reckoning.

Ceremonial garments of silk, amber lace.
Beauty in ritual, cloaked, strangled
Cut off from other races, set apart
Differentiated, pooled into a mould.
Do you fit your dress? Too tight?
Restriction is the name of the game.
I told you you would never get out.
Dose on drugs, delight in new sight
New sight. Old sight, new sight.
All questions crowding around your head.
Will satisfaction ever be granted?

Make a list of all your life’s catastrophes.
Frame it; put it on your wall, in the living room.
Don’t hide your fate, fate is what has happened
And what is left to be seen.
See more, put more up.
Put up what you don’t see.
See what you want. Make it appear.
There can be no mistake.
Determinism, free will, existentialism
Choice no choice.
Little girls, with gold on, jewelry, ready to be
Put to market; here come the men
Now to buy, enslave, rape, spread
Her legs, a quiver, the both of you, for
Two different reasons.
Sick pleasure and sick suffering.

Does life take revenge on the savage?
Who will get bitten back, will we
All suffer? From top to bottom, in
Out, all. Is forgiveness sweater still?
A flower ripped out still plants its seed.
We will grow, revenge may occur,
Serenity never sown, False pretences
Love only a fog, mystery with great remorse.
The water moves, cool, blue, wet
Splashing, spraying, rising, diminishing.
One sun one moon laid to rest
It is good night; all is dark, no stars
For our eyes can no longer
See the light.

We crawl on the beach, winged crabs
With melting thighs, soaked in butter sand
Grilled up, tossed, left out of cages.
We know not where our wings went.
We know not that we had wings.
Fried blue crabs, coddled till death
The whole world is a bubble
Earth is a self-sustaining statue
Of ever fluctuating stone, lava
Growth. Cerebral perception
Limited by the cerebral. Nobody knows.
Nobody cares. Give me my money;
Give me my food, house, let me have
Babies, the opportunity to earn in
Blindness, shrouded with bitter spurts of
Happiness, clarity or confusion
Just let me be.


Central Pooling

Posted: January 11th, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Poetry | No Comments »

The sprinkling fire coming from my pores
Speaks of unrequited majesty
Bleeding green ooze followed by
Bone deterioration and weakening ores
Cells struggling under tar pulling
Dying arms and fists up into the air
Emaciated little bundles of flesh
Too dull to snap falling back
The earth confiscated what was once
Flying around mazed and incomplete
Oily rainbow pool at the center
Rippling out reverberating endlessly
Never reaching another entity