It’s me

A wonderful, resonating vignette of the introverted artist. “It’s me” by daffniblog.

Daffniblog

There’s been a hawk circling my house. And around the corner, a brunette threw up in the gutter while her boyfriend went off somewhere with his friends. That’s never been my type of crowd, but then again, I was always a weird kid. It’s only getting worse. My house is my sanctuary and people are coming around less and less. It’s me. I’m pushing them away as far as I can. Living in solitude, growing a healthy fear of what’s normal. Tiny hands reach in and out in a rhythm I’m coming to terms with. I still think about it though, how to show them writing is my thing, my only thing, and nothing else. Along with love of course. But they already know I’m the soft kinda crazy. I personally like to call it passionate. Anyway, no matter how hard I fight it, my bones look just like his…

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Dryad

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I’m thinking of trees

The rough on the fingertips

The cool darkness beneath

The others that look like winter

Looking at me

Pointing at their flat rock

Scratching, scratching, scratching

Pointing their driftwood fingers

To their snow white scratches

Their mouths open

The sounds that come out

The crunch and snap of the forest floor

The growl and yip yip of wild dogs

It affronts the ears until the cooing begins

Then it’s all sad eyes and cooing

I miss the smell of decay

The feel of wet moss underfoot

I try to tell them, the winter people

Let me go home

Let me go home

I rustle, I chirp, I warble, I ribbit, I buzz

The stupid winter people do not understand

I begin squealing, shrieking and screeching

Until my voice cuts out

I cough a small drip drop

Of inside water, the color of dying trees

Into the palm of my hand

I curl up on the floor

Running my fingers across dead wood

Imagining the softness of grass and moss

A parallel me

On another earth

Critical period hypothesis

Missed window for language acquisition

I am a dryad

An anomaly

I am closer to the truth

Than the winter people will ever be

Deontological Doubts – Aurora Phoenix

This really resonates for a former altar boy. Aurora Phoenix never fails to delight at Sudden Denouement.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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Deontological Doubts

I run barefoot
past the bronzed statues
idols of deontological divination.
I am a rule-following rebel
tracking muddied toes
between the pews
in which I have long since
refused to kneel.
I gave up self-flagellation
for Lent
the year I was sixteen
though those reflexes
to don needless
sackcloth and ashes
twitch, regenerative,
and the hair shirt
constricts
my free spirited
flights of fancy.
I labor
toward fictional salvation
yoked under twined heritage:
an inexhaustible work ethic
protesting
my non- Protestant roots
while I lug the chiseled tablets
writ with my Catholic guilt.

I have walked the straight and narrow
heel just beyond toe
slow and steady
concentrating
hands held just so
contriving delicate
equilibrium
quivering –
the fallen branch is wobbly
surging water below
frigid, if not deep.
that limb I went out on
felt a mission
no lark nor miscreation.
there was vine-shrouded rot
a shattering…

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Inured

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Remember when coffee felt like it was boiled in the depths of hell. When a broken promise brought real physical pain. When vegetables raised bile to the back of your throat and you made yourself sick, just to get out of having to eat more. The taste of artificial sweeteners…what fucking devilry IS this?!? Spicy food. Shots at the doctor’s. Using a public restroom. When the sound of adults arguing made me hide under the bed and I cried myself to sleep. The way a loved one’s look of disappointment hurt your heart. Asthma taught me, as a little boy, that even drowning on dry land will pass. Jesus, even with asthma, I hacked my fucking brains out on the first few cigarettes, only to become a pack-a-day smoker. The steady weight gain of middle age, until you find yourself buying shoes that slip on easily. The boss’ condescending tone, from a guy you wouldn’t even bother holding a decent conversation with. Watching my little boy in the window, as I drive off to my 9 to 5. Some of the deepest transgressions end up changing us but become just phantasms we try not to remember. I’ve been here before, so just rip the goddamn bandage off. No I don’t need to look the other way…just try and get it in the vein the first time around. I have become inured. But, but…sometimes I wish I felt every bit of it. Because I’m starting to wonder if I’m putting up with more bullshit than I should, and, most of all, I think I should still be crying everyday from your passing. I miss you, our conversations, and my biggest fan. This world/growing old/time has made me numb, has made me a monster, and I’m not even sure if I feel bad about it.

Unresolved

I feel like I just got into a knife fight with 1990s Beck and all I can do is admire the blood splatter. Check out Oldepunk at ramjetpoetry!

RamJet Poetry

unresolved

felicitous, felonious

eminent, impregnable

pregnant with speeches

of impenetrable verisimilitude

I bore easy and adore the sleazy

so let’s get cookin’

fentanyl and vodka piledriver

my everyday lay-away life

I hate the Mondays as much

as your Sundays

and although the Beatles were great

I like the Who better

Who are you?

not me first

me too

or the both of us

hotboxed bath salts

tainted with the blood of a virgin

human trafficking my thoughts

across the void of crime and place

my face, appearing on milk cartons

at home

nobody knows where I’ve gone

too old for the Amber Alert

and too young for the Silver Alert

averted eyes at bedtime with cocaine shivers

and tequila sunrises through the curtains

shots fired into the pain of name spoken

with the coldness only old love knows

nose bleeding the fuchsia minutiae

onto the Kleenex wadded up

and tossed in…

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Coo coo for Cocoa Puffs

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At the bottom of a spam email, probably 3-4 years ago, or so, I came across some unintelligible writing. There seemed to be structure but just didn’t make sense. The first sentence was, “At the hands of taking into consideration that missed July your Western European initiated against oriental programs many times contradropping basic steps…” For whatever reason, I kept reading. Near the bottom of this jumbled mess I came across the following text, which I applauded, at that time, the indomitably, creative human spirit of the downtrodden author, who must’ve been in a living hell, having to write spam emails for a living. Here it is (Note: The views and opinions expressed in the following article are those of the unknown author and do not necessarily reflect the views and/or opinions of any sane/rational person that I am affiliated with/know of, or have created as a fictional character):

“And then there are pigeons. Ever seen their mating ritual? Chances are you have, but can’t remember it. It never aired as a fancy schmancy Discovery Channel or Animal Planet documentary, that’s for sure! The mating ritual of the pigeon, rat with wings, and the only scavenger that has somehow succeeded in suckering hordes of people into feeding them, goes like this: A female pigeon’s trip led through some populated area…just minding her own business. Along comes a male pigeon. He starts follow her. Not at a respectable distance but within the tiniest of fractions of an inch from her feathery ass. She starts walking faster. He starts walking faster. She turns left, he turns left. She turns right, flies off, lands again, turns rightleftright. He turns left, right, flies off after her, lands again within the tiniest of fractions of an inch from her feathery ass, turns rightleftright. Finally she gives up and lets him bang her. This goes to show that what some call stalking others, notably pigeons, call courting. And if someway, somehow the pigeon society would ever evolve into a constitutionally governed state, bestowing certain unalienable rights to its citizens, such as the right to be free, and some schmuck, overly eager pigeon of a lawyer would demand a restraining order for the pigeon stalking his female pigeon client the pigeons would be royally fudged and die out in one generation. Luckily for the pigeons though, they’re really stupid and will only evolve into a society when hell freezes over, in which case fucking might be the only thing that can keep them warm.”

Happy New Year

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I shed my scaly skin

Cheese grater scrubbing

The crust must go

Air must reach the fresh

Pink skin beneath

A freshly plucked fowl

My need to howl out in pain

Is attenuated by your indifference

This patina of malaise

An antibiotic resistant bacteria

Caught from stagnant, aimless days

Dallying in the doldrums

A broad spectrum tincture

The deepest, loneliest blues

To the brightest, livid reds

Mustn’t bring your old broom

To your new house

Now lemon juice and salt

Need to shine

Like a bright, new penny

I’m a new car…not brand new, just new to me

My reflexive modulation of inflection

Is inflicted by reflecting on my reflection

Goodbye to the old fear

Mourn loss with a single tear

Now is the time to be freer

Ring in the new year

‘TIS THE NIGHT OF THE WINTER SOLSTICE by Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner. This should be the mantra for the coming year!

‘Tis three nights before Christmas, the day after Hanukkah, eight from St. Lucia, and five ’til Kwanzaa. ‘Tis two months since Diwali, India’s festival of light, as Sun settles into our world’s longest night. A breeze hugs the mountain, nudging daytime to eve, while an unkindness of ravens and a hawk take their leave. Observing […]

via ‘TIS THE NIGHT OF WINTER SOLSTICE — Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner

Figments of a Mania – Henna Sjöblom. If art is supposed to make you feel uneasy…Henna is a true artist. Another spectacular poem found at Sudden Denouement!

I saw her in the dark of my eye stretched out on a polyester blanket, puffed-up cheeks and threads of pink bubblegum stuck to her hair the /maggot-eaten/ stockings barely covering up the /cigarette burns/ along her legs riffles trough the pages of the /holy/ bible, decides she doesn’t have time patient may sometimes […]

via Figments of a Mania – Henna Sjöblom — A Global Divergent Literary Collective