The devil I know

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The devil I know

Because when I was alone,

Unwanted,

Discarded, lacking value and abandoned

He was there


Despite warning and threat

He was there.

And he made good on his promise

2am feedings

Colic

Diaper rash

Hernia he was there

Because I was and ugly failure

Not worth the love of anyone

And I took that out on him

And he nursed my soul back to humanity

And made me feel attractive for the first time

Because I’ve held him through his tears

Patted his hair 

Soothed him back to sanity

Because I’ve abused and beaten him

Pummelled and hurt him

Cut him with my words and my actions

And he refused to let me go

Because when I failed at my vocation and left the path less traveled he was my guide

my nurse in sickness, he was there

Because in my lowest moments he hoisted my weight

Because he has seen the worst of me,

Deep dark evil me, and he is still here

Because our mutual loss killed him as much as it killed me and we are still mourning

Because I have seen the worst of him

And I am not afraid of violence

Because of the phenomenal dick

Because I am malformed and so is he 

And because I fail, have failed, will fail and know that I can expect no better from him
Because he was a deserted child and is adrift of purpose 

Because there are moments of happiness, harmony, 

Because despite not knowing how to do it, he loved his children

Because despite for all his lacks they all love him dearly

Because I’m weak

Because I’ve been strong enough for both of us too long

Because he feels like home

Because I love him

Because at the end of the day we are broken individually but it feels a little less so as a whole

The devil I don’t…

Is Jason Mamoa, the mocha version, soaking wet

His eyes are hungry and his appetite specific to only me.

He is well read, well fed and able to make me so also.

His voice is chocolate covered gravel 

And his words are only truth

And adoration

He is 6 figures and generous to boot

Loves sea side walks and deep conversations,

Police shows and pontifications of the stately of things,

He is well traveled with simple tastes,

Has sated the urge to wonder.

Is kind, is loyal, is willing and able to adapt to my ambitions

He is perfection

He is a fantasy

He is an unattainable ideal

He has some dark flaw

That might be the end of me

He is too good to be true

He is a question


Insomnia

I don’t own this photo or the rights to it

2 am and the flesh is weak,

The mind is weary,

The spirit heavy laden,

What used to be ant hills,

Now feel like mountains,

And the darkness and the silence,

Are pregnant and accusing.

2 am and eyelids are heavy,

Lined with gravel,

But impossible to close,

The oblivion of them,

Most welcome,

But cruelly out of reach,

Torture.

2 am and the bone deep tired,

The subtle aches of aging flesh,

Wearing bone,

Compressed by experience,

Worn by toil,

Feel like fresh wounds,

Deep reminders of advancing age,

Impending mortality,

Achievements not yet had,

All which seem,

In the grand scheme,

Of a nepatistic apocalypse,

Unimportant and secondary,

But still ring urgent even in their pointlessness.

And 2am 

Mourning dreams that seemed too ludacris,

Desires that incurred too much risk,

Lovers that were works if fiction,

And fictions that would make up the perceptions of you

Sleep will not come

A barrier erected of,

Tomorrow’s that may never be,

Today’s that feel like forever, 

And relief like a roving oasis in a desert to uncertainty,

Block the sandman his egress,

Block you from the stillness of rejuvenation.

2am.words without voice,

Because who wants to hear them?

How apporiate are they?

Because words are just words,

Spoken in a language spurned by the unread..laughed at.

Because strong and independent,

Because centered and balanced,

Does not know weakness,

Are unbothered by others,

Does not seek to fit in,

But it does.

So 2am must be weak.

And weak is not an able state for company

2 am knows no comfort,

Must be throttles into submission,

Must be kidnapped,

Kicking and screwing into sleep

Unconscious

And when finally it’s found

Just before the 5 am alarm


Click clack

Heels clicking on concrete.

avert your gaze, tuck your chin, and be silent,

speak only in her absence.

Sticks never thrown, stones never hurled do not these bones break

High heels clicking on concrete,

the sound of ire never realized,

of crimes committed in the minds of victims unseen,

or perhaps imaginary,

now’s the time for confrontation?

Heels clicking on concrete

drown out the sound of,

or perhaps step right over,

words dropped deliberately in her path,

but she who brandishes heels does not pick up trash.

Words without context fall on deaf ears.

Lay your charges and face your aggressor,

the worse you could face is your own error.

Heels clicking on concrete,

head high, hips swinging,

heaving breath laden with frivolous laughter,

she is the hero of her story ,

the villain of yours and uncaring if not oblivious.

Heels clicking on concrete,

strike a dramatic pose,

exudes and proclaims ‘me mouth na fulla watta’

never discrete in her truth as she knows it.

High heels clicking on concrete

walking past your bullshit.


Cry you an ocean

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Cry you an ocean,

Let fall freely from you cheeks

Your own disappointment in yourself

You have struck the path that led you to this

And here you stand again,

Alone,

Unable,

Unwilling,

Incapable…

Underserving.

 

Cry you an ocean,

Littered as far as the horizon with

Every dream you failed to make come true

Every hope you let burn out

Every promise broken

Every compromise swallowed

For the making of peace, that was not yours

Of comfort you cannot feel

Love that will never warm you

Satisfaction you will never know

 

Cry you an ocean

Scream your rage,

Frustration,

Anger,

Hate,

Pity,

All turned inwards

All structures solidified by pain and doctrine,

By routine

And the need to belong

 

Cry you an ocean,

Try to fill the gaping maws with the salt of your spirit

Make barren the fields of your accomplishment

Succumb to all they said you would never be

Could never become

Are not good enough to behold

Submit to circumstance and happenstance

None of your own making

But against which you have stood far too long and far too well

That no one had seen the cracks in your framework

Or perhaps not cracks but furrows dug

By loved one,

One sided love,

 

Cry you an ocean

Mourn things not yet come,

That viewed at a distance through the lenses of your present

Will never come to pass.

Moan a prophesy,

Self fulfilling, generational curses,

Passed from one cruel mother down through generations

That left no scars on your flesh

but made chains around every tomorrow thereafter

 

Cry you an ocean,

know your escape may be futile

From the dark and sunken place,

From the bleak and restless existence

From the grey forever of no better coming

Of no good path spread before you

Because you are truly one,

One among many,

Isolated in desolation

 

Cry you an ocean,

Drown in your own sorrow,

Battle scared and broken,

at the bottom of a bottle,

under the heat of scrutiny,

judgement,

shame.

 

Cry you an ocean,

then let it sweep you away.

 


Switches

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Someone flipped a switch and I lost my shit.

Someone in here wondered too close to some faulty circuit,

and everything got so big and so loud,

I am alone.

I am small.

I am insignificant.

Effort is meaningless.

Someone turned the lights out,

Everything got cold,

Intimidating,

Every little thing became a mountain to cross,

and every breath had a little less oxygen in it,

Just like that,

From one moment to the next.

One second it’s fine,

ONE MINUTE LATER

FLICK

and my thoughts dissolve into  chaos

and I FEEL INSANE

because

things are just as they have always been

everyone is who they always were

BUT I FEEL LIKE LIFE IS ABOUT TO LEAVE ME

Like someone just flipped a fucking switch

 

 

 

Please turn it off.

 

 


Sorry Not Sorry

black-woman-crying-feat

He said he was sorry…

But…

his victim had no one to protect her.

But…

She was in the wrong place.

But…

He has a right to not be known.

But…

Just look at his angel face.

But…

The record shows he is troubled.

But…

Be mindful of his future.

But…

Boys will be boys.

But…

He was angry.

 

He said he was sorry,

But after all,

It was her fault.

 

And so it came to pass,

That magistrate duly did demand,

That I should say…

 

I’m sorry…

About his knee caps.

That it took 10 swings of a cricket bat,

Before I heard them crack.

 

I’m sorry…

About his fingers,

That bones shatter,

When stepped on by a full-grown mother.

 

I’m sorry…

About his lip,

About the way it split, 

That blood doesn’t wash out of cotton so easy.

 

I’m sorry…

About his stomach,

That the knife,

Was dull and rusty.

 

I’m sorry…

It got twisted,

But he laughed when punctured.

And the red on my hands,

Matched the red that clouded my vision.

 

I’m sorry…

But I was angry.

I’m sorry,

But he wasn’t sorry.

 


Renewed

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She slid the ring off her finger,

She rubbed at the flesh beneath,

Hoping no one would notice the sun-starved skin.

Much the way her spirit stood staved of passion.

 

She slid the ring into her purse with

She hoped with it the last vestige of her guilt.

Her guilt for being neglected

Her guild for being left behind

Or perhaps at moving too far forward

 

She moved among the heaving bodies,

Embraced the spirit that mused the motion

She gyrated and ground her hip against the engorged flesh of a man 12 yes her junior

 

She gave in to the dancehall rhythm,

Let herself lose,

Against this boy and that.

She let her hair down for the first time in 10 years of marriage.

 

The guilt kept creeping,

She firmly dismissed it.

He knew there was a lack of intimate between them.

He knew and he kept choosing disinterest

Or other interests

Or interests in others

 

He himself had told a tale of two lovers,

Come roommates,

Comes strangers.

He told her with a finality that spoke more volumes than the tale itself.

 

But this boy,

Here in the darkness,

This grinding of veiled flesh,

His hot breath on the nape of her neck,

These hungry hands seeking passage into her veiled places

Was the affirmation of a desirability she had doubted for far too long,

She reveled in it.

 

She celebrated,

As guilt gave way to a wave of lustful abandon,

As hot lips touched her neck, her collar bone, her jaw line

As she surrendered her lips

As she wrapped her leg around his hip and let the grinding become something almost sex

 

She renewed her belief in her goddess self,

Leaving the club with this boy,

Into the room she had rented

Into the act of flesh rending

Flesh left untouched too long

 

She reveled,

Through the night,

And in the morning,

She left the sleeping form of a drunken stranger

She went home, renewed, to face her demon.


On the subject of Adult Womaning

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Disclaimer: I’m not quite sure if this is a poem or a rant. It is all an honest response to a friend’s asking about the experience of adulting and womanhood. I’m not even sure it’s finished but it’s been nagging to be set free so here I go. I may alter it later, or give it a part two but for now…

It’s like nats buzz, buzz, buzzing behind my eye ’cause…

The Bills and the rent and the tides and the gas,
All come due at the same time,
Taxes get bigger and salaries get smaller,
And APUA remains the same,
Water been off so long my laundry has evolved to a state of sentience,
And home-cooked meals have become but a memory,
Which remind me,
What can I cook that doesn’t have green things or crunchy thing,
Or isn’t too sweet, salty, yellow, greasy, fibrous or inflicts the need to chew!!
And two of my tires just blew,
because road works in progress can last a decade!

It’s like a thousand biting insects, squirming and biting and writhing on my skin ’cause…

MOM!!! I need…
Popsicle sticks, wood glue, Manila, toiletries for the homeless,
Pictures of farm animals, types of families, technology, types of transport,
A little red paper scissors from the store over yonder,
Six pounds of candy and the blood of a virgin cow,
born on the 1st of May when Saturn is in retrograde,
and the north wind smells sweet with the blossoms of snow on the mountain,
and the tide is highest at midnight and a lonely mermaid sings a perfect note.
And this Kid is in Kindergarten!!!
The others need Uranium mined from the dark side of the moon
when it faces the earth and Halie’s comet is in orbit.
All screamed impatiently thought the bathroom door,
when all I want to do is pee ALONE!!!!

It’s like some kind of Viscus liquid bubbling, popping and belching where thoughts should be ’cause…

Staffrooms are never quiet,
Kids are never compliant,
and 130 X 4 assignments don’t seem to mark themselves,
much less in time for deadlines for pedagogues set by an admin that sets the workload.
But low IQ is in fashion,
far too many parents are absent or terribly inadequate,
and rape and abuse are acceptable,
if the victim is a child of any kind,
When bruises only get seen by a few,
and these ones only ever want to talk to Teacher.
But Claireview doesn’t take voluntary residents,
and it’s never 5 o’clock when it needs to be,
and nobody takes me seriously,
when I say, Vodka dispensers need to be mandatory in my workplace!!!

It’s Like 4pm traffic with that asshole bus man that doesn’t know what an indicator does and parks to drop off and pick up on the one piece of road that doesn’t have potholes. ‘Cause…

…At the end of the day when you finally reach your sanctum,
You would really like a likkle wink up,
to make you feel like a woman again,
But half dead with exhaustion isn’t appealing, so…
Maybe you should dress up in Butt floss and hooker heels,
and put on one of those contraptions that makes boobs look appealing,
Though why is this needed? When for him droopy boxer drawers will suffice?

When these cool sheets feel too nice for a woman to go anywhere but down…into sleep.

 

 

 

 


Love Letter

loveletter-from-god

Dear you,

I still love you.

In this push and pull,
The conflict that is us,
In me trying to conquer you,
You coming to terms with us,
And me and you against them. I still love you.

It’s not perfect,
By no means is it always that beautiful thing that,
Pulled your headphones off and made me write those words that time,
It’s not new anymore,
It doesn’t sparkle anymore like it did that first time I dared claim your lips.
But I still find me feeling that high every once in a while because I still love you.

Sometimes we forget,
To be that girl and that boy touching nothing but our hands,
Saying nothing but what is passed between two sets of eyes locked.
We forget to be that kind of intimate,
Or maybe we just can’t find the time after the world has made us battle weary.
But I sometimes feel that kind of warm because,
You still remember to lay your head on my breast and just listen to my heart,
Or cradle me without saying words to ignite my tempest.
You still love me.

It can be a dangerous thing,
You and me and all of where we’ve been,
Allies and adversaries, do you remember?
All that anger and hate and passion and longing,
And occasionally old memories hurt more than new cuts,
Baby, I hated to hate you and I still do, because I love you.
And you take it, my angry, hateful, hurtful me,
Sometimes even when undeserving.
You let my demons ravage you and you soothe me back to something kinda human.
You still love me through my shit.

I still love you,
And we are still together,
Despite using words like switchblades,
And forgetting to give each other accolades,
And not knowing when us is me and you and none of them at all,
Despite getting caught up in who we want to be for them,
And losing who we should be for us.
I still love you.

Still, love the way you love me.

Still, love how we love.

 

 

 

 


BROKEN

japanese-bowl-8c

Whole feels like a memory,
Dipped in molasses.
Bitter-sweet and ungraspable with the tenuous hold of hindsight.

Something missed,
Wondered at,
Reflected upon,

Forgotten.

Are we damaged because we are broken?
Did we break because we were already damaged?
Was it some deep fault shaped as we were molded?

Could it have gone any other way?

Can it still?

Would we want it to?

How many more cracks can be filled with golden mortar?
Before that which we become,
Is no longer akin in nature to that what we were.

Whole,
A bittersweet memory, Dipped in molasses,
Ungraspable by the tenuous hold of hindsight.


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