Peddling Severed Parts
Looking takes everything
Fits their souls
Sometimes
A baby sniffing soft arms
The pebble rolled of sand
The eternal
Small grains assemble
Eye out cliff’s fissure
Little suns
Can’t breathe
When the moment spits them to you
Little sun
Leave behind hucksters selling god
But at last yourself be.
Void
Hollow womb. Bloodied ground
cannot be heard on echo breath.
Empty nostrils sniff out the sound
of silence in a heartbeat’s death.
Pull a child from chink of day,
breath beats on in empty lungs.
The echoes of the dead still pray;
mute serf cut out their tongues.
Darkened holes of eyes drill deep.
A person turns to fill the space.
An empty body chants a beat
when incense idols leave this place.
The earth revolves and spills its light.
Bend, wring, echo twisted life.
Many mountains. I am
Thirsty roots suck life from earth
Rain that falls seeps through my veins
I lift my feet, pull up, resist the ground
The water creeps.
It dilutes me, cuts me, makes me weak
porous. I am rooted in water, and air
that rises gives life to plants, gives none to me
I shrivel. Close the gaps where darkness forms
Set loose through cracks, the barefoot hippy
freefalls, catches rainbows, leaps and springs
with yelps on jagged rocks beneath
I catch the birds and set the water free
I am old. I am wise. I am high
I am all the flowers and the trees. They are me
I am unpredictable. I am power. I am many
Penny, you are seen by all.
But you are things no one can see.
SCRATCHING around in the depths for the words. Scratching my brain for the structure. Scratching my heart for the emotion. Scratching the dog for inspiration. Scratching the surface. Clawing my way deep inside myself. Nails and teeth. Grit. Torture. Physically exerting the quiet writer inside. Teeth. Biting through the heartache. Covering over with sand. Startled at what was there. The bedlam. The mystery. Use the angst to write the story. Coffee bay and beds. Scratching at my truth. Whose truth. Twisted and dark. Delusions and delirium. Chalkboard. Silent scream. Mice behind the skirting boards: bleeding from nose and gums. Tragic death. Gorey. Brutal. Honest. No compassion for the words on the page. Putting up boundaries to break down the barriers. Feel enough to no longer have to feel the pain. Scratch at the heart because the head does not respond. Scratching tired eyes. Close the book. Put down the pencil. Enough now.
STABBING at the people around me. Solitary existence. Pushing them away. Violently resisting any more feeling. Nerves pricking the edges of me. Stabbing at the pity and stabbing at the judgement. I stand by my choice. Fell them; watch them fall. This is my bubble. My vacuum. Don’t pop it. Don’t let air in. Don’t let me breathe. Suffocating left here alone. But it is my choice,. Mine. I own it. How can I own my own solitude? There is nothing in a vacuum. Creativity is an illusion and my writing is pure impulse. I have to work at the talent. Stabbing at the pages with sharpened tip. Pencil threatened. Pages exposed. Stabbing at my heart – make pain release words. Words now stab the page and watch it bleed. Inspiration flowing away on a stream of blood and pencil lead. Poisoned before it left the page. The poisoned creative genius. Afraid to write. Stilted. Stabbed in heart and head. Death comes to the lonely. Self-inflicted and sore. Missing the point. Sharp. Metal. Buried. Dig with dagger. Dig it out or die alone. Balance on the blade of blame. Lashing. Falling. Rising. Writing. Pencil sharper than sword.
Her wrinkled face sings the music
hushes her along
she reads the inscription
The sound of water pulls her in
flying off the edge
she chooses a road
Luck is like god not thinking straight
unchain them from the familiar
the truth is nothing
The monster somersaults
and then is gone.
