wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Aug. 12th, 2009 08:36 am)

Whispers to My Baby Blanket


The walls of this room feel like they are creeping in –

Silently hoping I will suffocate.

And then those shushing voices begin to crawl out -

Where I keep them beneath a sutured heart. 

Writhing up my spine and into my mind - ripping up the seams as they go along - popping the zipper open link by link, my cold innards spill out like cellulite - disgusting myself with inability to control it - I have come undone -

What they tell me is unspeakable.

And since they are inside me - like termites whittle away the foundations of my sanity – maggots boiling out of every orifice -keep me from hearing seeing speaking- devour the rotten meat - I cannot escape their torments -

Forced to hear lectures on subjects that don’t exist.

 

 

My only consolation would be that revolver and single bullet. Looking around this room - turning drawers and boxes inside out - 

The joke goes awry –

The bullet and revolver do not exist, either. There will be no pleasurable scent of smoke, no scurry of roaches over open eyes, one curious antennae fluttering against the still moist cornea. No stain flung on white walls for the artistic roommate to see; Very Pollock – she’d say.

If only the walls really would collapse down upon me, crushing together everything inside, compact the garbage to be tossed -

THEN –

I could hear the sweet sound of nothing -

Instead of those things I keep under lock and key
wakingupto42: (Default)
( Aug. 6th, 2009 10:35 am)

A Plea to Falkor the Luck Dragon

Like the Childlike Empress, I have fallen ill

Parts of my rich Fantasia are winking out

A land once lush and dense with imagining

Replaced with darkness unknown

Unseen – I travel within to find an answer.

 

But all the while I am being chased

Big black beast – thrives – follows me through

The G’mork – messenger for The Nothing

 Helping to eat away the world – with sweet words

Wolf concealed by sheep’s skin

Convinces me there is no hope

Conspires to stop me before I find a cure.

 

In The Swamps of Sadness I cannot get any farther

I only have to believe in myself

The power of the swamp rendered useless

But the hero Atreyu and his horse Artax are both missing

Their loss is mine

I have no one to carry me out

 No friend to see me through

And not even the ancient turtle Morla can give me wisdom.

 

The Auryn slips from around my neck – plunging beneath the silky black waters

And though I search frantically

 I am unable to retrieve the will to go on

My inner Fantasia slowly succumbs to the decay – sleep is restless and without dreams

Without them I will be lost

And I begin to sink beneath the Swamps of Sadness.

 

Looking into the night sky I pray to see the slow swim of white lightning

Undulating ever lower

He will come to save me just like he did for Atreyu in adventures past

At the last second will whisk me into the air

 Far from the G’Mork’s reach

Take me to a place where I might heal.

 

But I haven’t seen him yet

And I know - The Nothing approaches.

wakingupto42: (shinewithme)
( Aug. 3rd, 2009 08:13 am)

Blue Lace Dolly

 

He begins to tell her tales of Mermaids and Talking Lions.

Wanting to see a climax - never the resolution - unaware the doll’s eyes fall shut

He examines his beautiful doll and her painted face - frozen in time

Heartbeats – Breaths - what absurd thoughts - wishing she was human

And how one day they met on the beach to wage war.

Plump with childhood fat yet to be eaten by metabolism

All the while probing the molded flesh of the doll - Malleable but weak enough to bruise

Almost feeling the short nervous breaths

The battle was very violent and many of the Merfolk and Lionfolk were killed.

He can almost feel the heartbeat under the artificial skin

Gingerly –one hand - feels along awkward limbs

Strings pulled tight to keep her in place

The master reaches the end of the story frantically.

Taking care to line her small clothing to the side

She stares up at him - waiting for his inspection to continue - to know when she’s real

Carcasses are scattered along the beach - blood turns the foam red.

Brow sweaty - breathing heavy - the toils of battle rolling across his face

Smoothing palms over nipples not yet attached to breasts

The Puppet Master spreads her out on the bed.

And it seems to him – she has heard this story before

 

And the dolly - blue lace and tear stained face - drifts out to sea.

 


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