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 SkyTigress · Mon May 29, 2006 @ 03:20am · 0 Comments |
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hinge bte of skin tap tap tap['m] touch her with a cane
bent curved around the world sweetgreet mutated like
[a] gross thing [fr(end)ad]og jumps wobbling caught in sync
(sound wave)
flimsy underbeast shake-rattling thumpint[he] bed -- hole
body vibration and there's a slim jim caught in
[might]ripbang back pockets vise grip saw (clamped)
dust hopping [come]sto bone sang wrapped in thinck
blocks of visceral (clickclickclick porcelain) meat (skirts)
(splits)
their spotty grubby dirt specked garden spectacles -- Ocular
Corneal sindipital Dysfunction [back]drag
.............................................................................................................stop
standdown in a fervent fun mir(age)ror sunk under jagg
/ed disrupted searrate light. the rock in my cereal box.
she can forgive him
SkyTigress · Fri Mar 24, 2006 @ 07:52pm · 0 Comments |
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Mr. Fantastic is such a wuss. |
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Mr. Fantastic is such a wuss.
He is the floor cleaner of the superhero world.
All he is is smart and stretchy.
I mean, the Beast is smart, but he kicks a**.
All Mr. Fantastic can do is extend his body to
extreme lengths and widths, growing up and around,
pulling his skin to extents that hold and tie
the ones he loves, as the slings and arrows of
super villains attempt to penetrate his meager offer
of protection - stretching his body out and around,
using his thicker thoughts to en-cushion and
en-womb the innocent in the soft, warm comfort
of his breaking bones as the world impacts around him.
Man, he is such a wuss.
SkyTigress · Fri Mar 24, 2006 @ 07:51pm · 0 Comments |
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"I was in belgium,
the winter of 1944.
We were pushing the germans back across the border
when I was separated from the rest of my troop.
It was beginning to go dark
when I realized what had happened
and I was so scared,
let me tell you what,
I ran all night, across that rocky ground,
right until day.
I made it into this little town
just in time to meet a family
coming down the road.
I asked them if they were going to church
and they said they were
so I'll be darned if I didn't go to christmas mass with them that morning."
SkyTigress · Fri Mar 24, 2006 @ 07:49pm · 0 Comments |
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I was usually a tank driver,
but one time
they put me behind the gun.
I remember we went out there
that day
and there was this one guy
that must of got separated from his troop
running in front of us,
and all I could do was shoot -
and pray that I didn't hit him.
Well, God must have been listening that day
because I just kept firing
and that little guy just kept running
ahead of our tank.
Nowadays,
they train soldiers
not to be so squeamish
about hitting an enemy target.
SkyTigress · Fri Mar 24, 2006 @ 07:47pm · 1 Comments |
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SkyTigress · Fri Mar 24, 2006 @ 07:46pm · 0 Comments |
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She called on me to Howl at the moon with her. |
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Come here boy, I want to talk to you about rape, No -
don't run away like some pansy little girl -
this is something you need to hear and I need to say because I'm tired
of women being the only ones brave enough to speak up when you
are the one who's always on top of the issue.
I want to talk to you about the sound one's head makes
as it bounces against the bed of a truck,
the muffled gong of a bone clapper against a body-smothered bell.
How your ears go
numb, not from the night cold metal nor the eternity of stars above you
but because you can see that your Dad has just turned out the lights
and you know
that he has that baseball bat in the corner of his room,
but your friend could easily
clamp your mouth shut with his free hand like he's already
pinned your wrists body and ankles when you tried to get out from under him,
and your struggling only makes him harder and harder
to slip away from as you lose control over more
and more of your life, until the fear of tight,
lie-still bound-close phobia
overloads your system and you wilt like a deer in the frost lights of an oncoming vehicle,
lost in a neuronal white that has cut
you off from your own body.
I want to talk you about midnight phone calls,
calls that start with 'Go someplace quiet'
and crescendo two beats later into 'I'm in so much trouble.'
I want to impinge upon you the terror of knowing.
You could lock the door but he left his pistol lying close to where your baby is sleeping
and two hundred miles away I am absolutely. helpless.
to help, when I know, when I hear, of,
someone I love.
As she tries to go to sleep without brushing her teeth or washing the blood off her crotch
where you've ripped and torn her (terror makes you so so tight)
because she's afraid of those lights
where you're right in front of her,
drunk and laughing with your buddies, his homies,
her friends.
That'll make prosecution difficult, since she invited him in,
and the courts have yet to distinguish the difference between a house and a bed.
Let me explain to you how it is that one can sit next you on this couch, perched
with a screaming teapot spout shoved up her a**
and talk to you with every appearance of flirting
as she laughs that shake out of her voice
because as far as her nervous habits are concerned,
you're no different from her boyfriend,
her father, her boss, her husband, her professor or that man on the street -
half of whom have held her,
groped her,
grabbed her,
lifted her off her feet and shook her like she would like to ring that muffled bell till her lungs burst -
and the other half have been the most wonderful men in the world,
but that doesn't change the fact
that when your meat-lovin' fist comes down wrapped, double
around her pathetic little clapper stem that its going to take everything
she has to hold still and not jerk away like a hand slammed in a car door.
Let me tell you how that hysteria
has both doomed and delivered, as you have let her go,
dismissing her as a crazy nut and
thrown her against cars, couches,
your bed
thinking she's playing hard to get so you shoved that slimy, sausage tongue
down her embittered throat.
Because that's the way Brad Pitt thinks it's cool to kiss uninterested women.
Listen as the laugh turns into the vagitus of a convulsing diaphragm,
mimicking the movement of those snapable wrists
whose dulled thumping
you've been discarding as they tremble with effort against your chest.
Watch as she crumples along your pillow like a bell
struck by one of those two ton, extended cab, earth eating trucks,
face turned to the wall because for some reason she still
doesn't want you to see her cry.
Imagine how embarrassed I am as I tell you this,
my face burnishing the color of overheated brass. Watch
as I apologize for something that is not my fault
but I feel I should, be able to fix
because after all, it is my body and there must,
be something I can do to take it back,
take it all back.
But inevitably, this is not just a woman's job.
That's why I'm talking to you,
boy,
because it is high time
for you to be a woman, stand up and
pay attention.
...
Check list for this one:
1) Keep going over flow.
I want this one to Howl.
SkyTigress · Wed Aug 03, 2005 @ 01:05am · 0 Comments |
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Yellow surrenders as
turquoise resists demise
in finger print painted
comprehension
and on kindergarten shields
Such dangerous claws on a newborn,
bee catchers and deflowerers
black on
yellow petals,
it must be the time of year,
the heat of the sun drying pinks, lavender,
and those nestling gray goldfinches,
so awkwardly explained.
But yellow takes that light touch,
unrefined as a child:
the precision of adulthood,
always more right
with a patina of dust.
Have to start wearing khaki and
light pant painted walls.
Lemon Meringue, Pumpkin Cream.
Malton,
Wheatfield,
Tartar Yellow,
Barely Beige -
Can you hold on to those little thoughts
while playing with mechanics? Grease,
causing golden nuggets of worry to drip out of her ears
you can never get one of those stains out
they just turn yellow.
Frequent spotted sheets.
Too much coffee makes you acidic.
I should have stayed away from cigarettes and tomatoes.
...
Check list for this one:
1) Transition from Yellow to Khaki, that dang more right line is back again!
2) Still working on that first stanza.
3) Think about the repetition of gold - is the reference to money worth the second reference?
4) Make reference to Yellow Teeth clearer, preferably near the end.
Questions for the Reader:
Help?
It's about growing up.
SkyTigress · Wed Aug 03, 2005 @ 12:47am · 0 Comments |
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Mud and cold in the trenches:
going all the way up the left side.
It's these unlined boots
and cold your thumbs, he says,
"pinch your noses off,"
while the smell of bullets sign the blood.
Need the martyr stockings.
"I need a hand up,
I'm stuccoed ice stiff,"
a marinade of leg muscle
and slip-shod foot.
Need the martyr stockings -
For the cold; he cried,
"Can't even curl your hand
like a kitten in the grave,"
this is rigor in the third trimester
while the brain is swiftly blooming.
"Need the martyr stockings."
Skin dipped in glue
and allowed to crackle, while
the ends are losing to weekdays.
A flood of stoppage:
"Hold on tight," he says - one handed,
for the murmur of love
should not be here.
"Need the martyr stockings."
"Johnny?
What's that mean, Johnny?
Your socks are right here. Johnny,
I don't understand what you mean.
I can't help you if I don't know what you mean."
...
Check list for this one:
1) Change the title.
2) Think about martyr.
3) I don't like slip-shod.
Question for reader:
Any place I could edit that would help coherency?
This is about a stroke victim.
SkyTigress · Wed Aug 03, 2005 @ 12:46am · 0 Comments |
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