cloistered

unsaturated the paint on my silent gal portrait, another writing piece dusted and remade-thank you

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rolling off a flat world

I truly enjoy returning to older pieces and completely reworking them. I rarely like my original versions. I hack away the meat until only the marrow remains, then I throw out the skeleton and bury the bones.

book love and shower lust

my poem, dogeared inspiration, in FOXGLOVE JOURNALmy poem, dark magic, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL

I footnoted these 2 pieces in FOXGLOVE Journal before on previous posts, but I should have presented them better,
supporting the wonderful creative journals that support writers and artists – thank you😘
(photos courtesy of Foxglove Journal)

fait accompli

to break ‘the rules’ in accordance with your understanding of them
love, the loaded chain ascribed to bind your complicated heart
twisted metal must eventually cut blood flow
suffer the sane, suffer the insane
there is not a singular countermove 
weighted shackles are duty bound to drag you down
all the way
sink your entirety below the waters of realism
submersion, suffocation
of pain, of fear – the drowning

come here, move in very close to me
let me help you, sweetheart
as we descend into the bottomless sea
into your panicking soul
I will whisper, above the chink of padlocks

the only secret worth dying for
I will murmur into your ear–
how to blackout the pain, void the fear

oh my darling,
is there breath yet left
for this–

the torture of your compromised heart
must joyously accept its doom

there, there
do not be afraid

‘fait accompli’
alien-vamp-2-reduced-size

HAPPY VALENTINE’S 😘
painted this vampy alienish woman over the last few days–
she only bites if I tell her to

 

festooned chaos

since Halloween is near and my soon-to-be printed (yea) book
is due mid-December or earlier (yea)
I’m posting the only verse in love of the monster
that pays direct homage to this most wicked and deliciously sweet celebrationfestooned-chaos-text-color

love of the monster, is a black and white illustrated book
color was added here to protect the innocent;)

when I was nineteen, a snake spoke to me

when I was nineteen, a snake spoke to me
hissing he worked into my impressionable ear
slithering onto my lazy tanned skin below the neckline
parallel to my protruding collarbone
where I sometimes rested my hand
to make sure I was still alive back then
pumping, pumping, pumping
his serpentine curves with jovial tongue
flicked like young men’s hands
he admitted to the perfect place
to coil in-between the sunless spot
protect the blood pumper
I imagined him threaded through my flesh
red-eyed, purple-oxide shimmering scales
he’d wait for prey there, my silent confidant
hidden away where only the most intimate of loves
would know him by name
then easily forget, when they left my body
those round muscles would know
know and never tell
all the times I was broken
he is with me now, my silent slitherer
in my mind’s flesh
secrets still dark and deep like a swallowed mouse
or crushed rabbit
I think of him often
though it sometimes seems
everyone is tattooed but me

Snake/Mouse

Snake/Mouse

deep into my life

you are so deep into my life
I don’t remember the feel of my skin alone
you are all I long for each day, your body and mine
hearts, heads, hands
all parts in between
and below
fiercely joined, not the iceberg
that sank the unsinkable
dare pierce our flesh
you and I
float on something greater
catastrophic winds hold no bearing
across our sails
the compass of our bond guides true
would a mighty mountain black out the sun
no mourning of light
or heat for that matter
need be honored

we are self-contained
a brilliant vessel of fire
striking flames on sheets
laughing with moonlight
sharing secrets in locked embraces
my entire core flowing within yours
it is for all these most magnificent reasons
I
must

leave
the union we share is too ungodly powerful
there is not a moment of air singularly mine
the intoxication of our mixing flesh
wobbles my entire body
forever in fog
not walking clearly
mist evaporating only by your presence
it’s not right
we weather any elemental affliction
together for certain
but I fear these soul libations
toxi-fying my blood
before I grow a milligram weaker
I will walk away
with both feet on the ground
back turned to you
yet

I will mourn every granule of flesh
I must dig away
to make a whole

Warrior Lashes

Warrior Lashes

this art I thought fitting for the piece, as this gal is a warrior and the person in the verse is ‘trying’ to be
though I’m truly not sure if she behaving selfishly or selflessly or cowardly

well red or where to find her secret

a play on words. the theatrical presentation of polyester tomboy life. a waking thought. sky diving into bedtime storyland. Peter Pan warns individualism must be shared. now, I don’t want to see my wings clipped by an elfin dude I could beat the crap out of, so I’m going to (begrudgingly) divulge a diary secret.

shh, I’m about to give up the hidden location of an idea place. 
before moving beyond this point you must have a dog (if you don’t, borrow one from a friend). 
for starters, you don’t have to wear the same pajamas like I do–fifteen years (going for a personal best).

we begin by focusing and moving backward to a place you weren’t born then go ‘well’ passed there. continue meandering as long as you can stand it. when you arrive at the small door in the fat tree, do not look for Alice the Golden, or a gleeful bear. you’re on your own. spirit around the bulky tree and the little door (if you went through that stumped portal, you must start over. hey, I didn’t even tell you to turn the knob).

the rest of you keep moving. up the six hills with the long grass that tickles you into forgetfulness. on the seventh hill where the black sun spreads across the white ground you should see a dilapidated well. climb to it. push the lopsided bucket aside. peer into that black hole. it is ungodly deep and satanically dark down there. throw yourself in.

that’s right (if you thought about how much it might hurt, were nervous about what could be lurking on the bottom or loathe falling upside down in confining lightless places–you’ll need to change your wet pajamas then go back to the beginning). those still with me we are presently falling. down, down, down. submerging into the red. crimson lightning splatters across the abyss walls (Mr. King likes this). if we remained calm, we’re floating in spectacular red. red for the reason all good things are. blood. pumping. boiling. lusting. bloody good. bloody fucking great. get those blood suckers. blood hounds. drink up as much life giving red as you possibly can. (hope you brought the dog I said you needed. luckily for us, all dogs are loyal so they followed) now, whistle for Lassie. she’ll find that silly Timmy whose only job is to follow plan b–get real help (let’s face it, Timmy is nothing but trouble and lacks coordination).

if your dog isn’t Lassie (sorry, I forgot to mention that little detail in the beginning), you’re not getting out of well red anytime soon. kick frantically if you must, but you’ll eventually drown. if this happens you’re definitely not getting out. just float on your back. think of where you aren’t and what might be going on there. is his head too big to fit through a little door? is her soul too small to fill a honey pot? did the insane tambourine player find his moldy hamburger? all good questions. continue emptying your mind of whatever it is you think you know.

then a black sun epiphany–

a way to climb out of well red.

hopping up one little springboard at a time ’til you reach the top

with a fistful of fresh inspiration in each hand

now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get my wings polished.

Angel Cone

art created last year for another post

ann tagonist

tangerine dream was the boutique price she paid
for the fancy silk lace so perfectly
hanging on her collar bone like a sweet ray of sunset
luring

the fine gentleman
who had been admiring her
thin creamsicle strap and well-turned out earlobes
from which great sapphires sparkled
and cast
the faintest dulcet blue threads upon her raven hair
he was nearing her scent zone
batting his fine suit as he closed in

attempting to remove suburban wife stench
before entering this perfect circle
ann tagonist was city
nothing slow moving on those frenetic avenues
he was certain her mane of dark would accent his summer linen
her sapphires would
contrast nicely against his sinewy muscles
he was fantasizing in tangerine shades
while hidden in his secret pockets
dirty diapers, kid spittle, exhausted moments

child number three busted the duet
he was not a good tripler
two had already been too many
he madly wanted out
out of

the suburban box
he sought sweet fragrant urban freedom
without another delay
into that city circle he hustled

not freedom
but frenzy
and what man didn’t want that
ann tagonist
well, she was always ready to play a juicy role
and for his good looks
she would decidedly sparkle

leonada's earring