LA VIE EN TURQUOISE  paint up my sleeves with a jug full of oil cram your olive vermillion and turquoise and slide them on the canvas of my skin i protrude the oval-shaped green pills

LA VIE EN TURQUOISE paint up my sleeves with a jug full of oil cram your olive vermillion and turquoise and slide them on the canvas of my skin i protrude the oval-shaped green pills

stranger seconds of solitude, don’t look at me, i cross, i’m still, i kneel forge your secrets and forget your testimonies, a sucker for sins i am you said i’ll carry you, i say come into me a redemptive chorus slides anemically, you procrastinate seize me virgin again measure the strokes you blessed the surface with lost in control, uncontrollable lust, the end ticks inside of her, she wants jesus

messianic metamorphosis

stranger seconds of solitude, don’t look at me, i cross, i’m still, i kneel forge your secrets and forget your testimonies, a sucker for sins i am you said i’ll carry you, i say come into me a redemptive chorus slides anemically, you procrastinate seize me virgin again measure the strokes you blessed the surface with lost in control, uncontrollable lust, the end ticks inside of her, she wants jesus

I’m seeing letters coming out of vaginas, Squirming from the dim cosmos in bits, syllables, commas, single-word sentences, All isolated, damp and mystical, hastening one full stop at a time. When the dead hookers breathe, they orgasm out the dirt and hurt of the world, Screaming in lower and upper cases as phrases flee their muddy fingertips. Letters giving birth to words, to dead sentences and living hyphens, Full paragraphs of grief, anger, and hatred, Spice the enduring speeches.

Birth

Milo Moiré - Performs “plop eggs” at Art Cologne 2014

one that cooks and looks good and smells like she hasn’t just been cooking, a harlot who’s a virgin, one who’s demanding but subservient, one who is motionless and doesn’t talk, an emotional storm who calms herself down, a spoon in a kitchen, a still in a bedroom, a stiletto heel in bed, a flower on the outside, a nail in the coffin on the inside, i speak in flames to a firefighter.

Woman in Patches

Contemporary American Women Poets: An A-to-Z Guide

I’m getting there over you. should I step on you first? your filthy body is growling as you walk motionless towards your bride, take her hand and say your requiem vows. we expand away from each other like galaxies you walk away as I plant seeds of us inside we killed something before its birth.

minefield

I’m getting there over you. should I step on you first? your filthy body is growling as you walk motionless towards your bride, take her hand and say your requiem vows. we expand away from each other like galaxies you walk away as I plant seeds of us inside we killed something before its birth.

Christmas bells clinking Choir voices softly singing Holiday season has arrived With soothing candle lights A winter delicacies feast And shiny gifts to be unwrapped All gathered by the fireplace Telling tales of joy, gleeful, and merry As snowflakes fall and the earth bury.

A Not So Merry Christmas Tale

Christmas bells clinking Choir voices softly singing Holiday season has arrived With soothing candle lights A winter delicacies feast And shiny gifts to be unwrapped All gathered by the fireplace Telling tales of joy, gleeful, and merry As snowflakes fall and the earth bury.

heavy strand of smoke, freedom rising beneath the ceiling, I wander with you and I know nothing of the cares of the world. you do not admonish me, or point towards my destination, but leave me floating, spacious, fleeing the abrupt which you did not cause; the savor you leave me with has sickened oh so many, but many has cured of loneliness, nervousness. the light at the end of the tunnel is where your ash lights up. burn to ash what has once caused pain,

burning desire

heavy strand of smoke, freedom rising beneath the ceiling, I wander with you and I know nothing of the cares of the world. you do not admonish me, or point towards my destination, but leave me floating, spacious, fleeing the abrupt which you did not cause; the savor you leave me with has sickened oh so many, but many has cured of loneliness, nervousness. the light at the end of the tunnel is where your ash lights up. burn to ash what has once caused pain,

Everyone is marching out of tune these days, Spirals of armies heading for one’s sanity besiege the mind enemy at once. New joy, I forbid you to disappear and leave no bread crumbs behind But you do And leave me with the click of death as cash turns dusks into dawns. You moan about the pace but the step isn’t yours, It’s one dollar in front of the other And next thing you know you are dust while someone else is getting richer by the millisecond...

Black Madness

December In Brazil students from the School of Communication and Art of the University of Sao Paulo perform a skit titled, Blind Ones

i’m not a poem, i’m not a word, i’m not a book, i’m not a device, i’m not a comma, i’m not a dot, a sign, a mark, i’m not a question, i’m not an answer, i’m not a reply, i’m not order, i’m not chaos, i’m not stellar, i’m not planetary, i’m not music, i’m not death, i’m not bipolar, i’m not dual, i’m not singular, i’m not a voice, i’m not noise, i’m not somebody, i’m not nobody, i’m not glam, i’m not goth, i’m not rock,

identity politics

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman you walk in the supermarket with your long-sleeved dress as if walking down the isle, I see you changing your pace, do you know I have longed? no groceries and no grocery boys in sight, you can do the shopping for me and I’ll do the shopping for you. scattered letters fill my mind instead of price tags, I’ll leave you, master, toy with them; fruit and vegetables are dying...

A Supermarket in California/Please Master (by Allen Ginsberg) Mash-up – A Masterful Piece of Rubbish

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman you walk in the supermarket with your long-sleeved dress as if walking down the isle, I see you changing your pace, do you know I have longed? no groceries and no grocery boys in sight, you can do the shopping for me and I’ll do the shopping for you. scattered letters fill my mind instead of price tags, I’ll leave you, master, toy with them; fruit and vegetables are dying...

I knew there was something there because we were at each other’s throats. Now we’re adult appliances dragging words out of each other’s mouths. And nothing comes out. Maybe just grief. We have grief and spices on the menu today. How would you like to serve it, please? The spices will do, thank you. Save the grief for mourning times. I’ll also have a black hole with a teaspoon of honey, please. Yes, coming right up. Sugar? Anything that poisons or asphyxiates, please, yes.

Heartbreak on the Menu

I knew there was something there because we were at each other’s throats. Now we’re adult appliances dragging words out of each other’s mouths. And nothing comes out. Maybe just grief. We have grief and spices on the menu today. How would you like to serve it, please? The spices will do, thank you. Save the grief for mourning times. I’ll also have a black hole with a teaspoon of honey, please. Yes, coming right up. Sugar? Anything that poisons or asphyxiates, please, yes.

MONEY REIGNS  MONEY FUCKS  MONEY DECEITS  MONEY FEIGNS  MONEY  STEALS  MONEY HUNGERS  MONEY RAISES THE VEIL.

Money

MONEY REIGNS MONEY FUCKS MONEY DECEITS MONEY FEIGNS MONEY STEALS MONEY HUNGERS MONEY RAISES THE VEIL.

In a sold-out show, I stand nude in the shop window, Tabula rasa, in line, awaiting to be told what to put on to sell, Like convicts waiting execution, mannequins they have turned us into. Semi creatures greeting each other with smiles and venomous corporate hand shakes, Mechanization is death imitation is death repeat after me repetition is death. I’ve gone to the depths of myself and found I am cut in half, sliced in one thousand bits of flesh and mourning...

Mannequins of Decay

In a sold-out show, I stand nude in the shop window, Tabula rasa, in line, awaiting to be told what to put on to sell, Like convicts waiting execution, mannequins they have turned us into. Semi creatures greeting each other with smiles and venomous corporate hand shakes, Mechanization is death imitation is death repeat after me repetition is death. I’ve gone to the depths of myself and found I am cut in half, sliced in one thousand bits of flesh and mourning...

I spot a wrinkly doll with a turquoise appearance catching her breath. She is silent and sits naked in her cupboard, Occasionally glancing out of it for something, And never leaves her cocoon. As she stares politely, my figure turns pale, An empress she is and knows we are nothing, An empty disguise with a full throne, She rests commanding among her toys.

Dolls

fairy-doll-ophelia-art-series-oil-painting-on-canvas.jpg By Barbara Agreste

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