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aayoung

Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

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Southern Gothic

war by candlelight

amidst the curiosities

of my yet to be packed up

roll top desk

i found a diamond bracelet

you had given me

hiding in one of

the apothecary drawers

it reminded me immediately

how you waged

war by candlelight

instinctively i pulled the pin

on that gauche grenade

lobbing the tacky bauble

into the goose shit encircled pond

behind the house

your weaponry

is not welcome here

anymore

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spinster sisters

when i was a little girl

allowed to roam

through the backrooms of

the house shared by my great aunts

ancient

spinster sisters

jo ann and mary alys

whose  Bates brothers all passed before

i didn’t mind the obligatory visits

imposed by my mother and sister so much

.

finding photographs of glory faded

antique wash basins and ceramic kittens

delicate baubles in satin boxes

fine dresses who had given up on finding love

bobby pins on china saucers atop

a vanity avoided because no one wanted to see

what it had to show

.

until i was five i thought jo ann

was a man

an old farmer in mens clothes

who smoked constantly

cut her hair short

and squatted like our indian ancestors

talking of her land

loyals dogs

sturdy tractors

whose barn had burned

tidbits you orta know

a lesbian of a time one didn’t acknowledge

such things

baptist blasphemy running through

her country bones

.

mary alys

the once beautiful bride

whose wealthy husband cecil had died

leaving her childless

grieving

though she seemed content

to remain married to his ghost

so feminine she was

pin curls

perfectly filed long

nicotine yellow nails

too many rings

a  forked tongued

wicked gossip

oral histories

slim pointy nose

judging everyone whilst wearing

pink polyester and

knee high panty hose

.

two women were never more different

yet to me

they were symbiotic halves

of a singular tale of  family woe

.

jo ann on her side of the sitting room

reading the paper

and mary alys

applying ponds cold cream to her face

and lotion to her transparent

blue veined soft hands

claiming she intended to make

a pretty corpse

.

jo ann went first

ate up with cancer

mary alys died later

of meaness

i suppose

winter was a crime scene

winter

was a crime scene

blood splattered onto frosted windows

red lipstick curse on the vanity mirror

high rise

victim dismembered

meat rotting

in poorly wrapped packages

to be toe tagged

orphans whisked away by the government

appointed neglectful

pearls fallen across the sticky floor

to a police radio symphony

Mahler fatalistic

smug detectives

sipping black coffee

no sugar to be found in the city

a glib act

notebook scratches

with no hope for answers

or finding the perpetrator

who caused

the whole mess

 

the dance of the seven veils

Salome with headold lovers hell bent

would have us dress in mourning clothes

.

for them

our dead love

they will never accept

our rejection of black

.

it is an abyss

a futile endeavor

tulip bulbs planted in drying cement

unable to blossom

.

no, no

we must never yield to this

.

as it is my nature

to move forward

grow toward the sunlight

moving my body

.

swaying salome

.

swooning to the music

.

the beauty of life in every note

whilst performing

.

the dance of the seven veils

The Inevitability of Cherry Blossoms

“Every mile is two in winter.” – George Herbert

 

January

has a way…

of making atheists

of Englishmen,

country folk,

and poets.

 

It’s as though

they have forgotten

their prayers

and the inevitability

of cherry blossoms.

i am not your dirty hooker

i’m tired of being treated like a dirty hooker

because i feel free

to voice my opinions

joke

use clever little double entendres

assert myself as a woman

who admires the human form

both male and female

and shockingly

even my own voluptuous body

so i have dared to post photos of it

.

write poems

produce art

which express my feelings freely

.

i’m tired of waking up every morning

to private messages on facebook

from seemingly educated

and mostly married men

left in a drunken stupor

or on a predatory whim

hey baby

wanna fuck

cunt dick pussy

or various combinations thereof

.

no

no i don’t

nor do i want you to cum on my face

or any other part of my body

.

these digital pussies wouldn’t have the balls to behave in such a way

to my face

but social media and the internet

removes the barrier of decorum

it invites subterfuge, sickness, and depravity

desecration becomes acceptable

redefines morays

.

i have a folder in which i keep

eight years worth of facebook sexual violations

for legal record

which contains 71 unwanted dick pics

and two sets of tits

let’s not leave out the ladies

.

i have one creep who leaves nasty messages on my blog

using several different names

but the idiot doesn’t know

i traced his ip address

preparing for war

in a folder of every infraction

funny how serious they take internet stalking these days

.

and he’s not the first

and he won’t be the last

but this is a defect

of the information age

.

the criminal inside your home

invited by your mere existence

.

i didn’t ask for any of this

.

but i refuse to be less me

to accommodate their disease

.

this behavior speaks to the abuser

the vile betrayer

and says nothing about me

.

but what i will no longer do

is be polite

for the sake of decorum and decency

as these individuals

have never extended

those courtesies to me

.

so the next time you feel so inclined

prepare for the my wrath

prepare to receive

exactly what you deserve

vengeance

just before

i take my leave

poem scribbled onto the back of a half price books receipt whilst sitting in the architecture section

i needed to escape my thoughts

but didn’t feel like driving

all the way to the library to be

.

surrounded by books

settling instead

on a half price books

i was hoping to find

kafka on the shore

by haruki murakami

.

no such luck

.

instead

gleefully discovering

a hard cover with pristine jacket

of larry brown’s

fay

and a two buck

the smiths

cd

.

i sat in the wing chair

of the architecture section

devouring my unearthed treasures

trying to forget

for a moment

people were elsewhere

in the world

busily

bloody

needlessly

dying

.

i found myself

wishing for a part time job

in the intellectual oasis

as a way to support my book addiction

.

sighing as i realized it could never be

.

i don’t have enough facial piercings

i’m not pale enough

i don’t have an ironically bad manic panicked haircut

i haven’t stretched my ear piercings with grommets

inside which one could wear an antique salt cellar

or piece of driftwood

in each lumbering lobe

i don’t wear my sweaters belted and frayed

or present with a look of general disdain

and loathing of the shoppers or human race

a permanent puss on an acne scarred face

.

they would never

hire me

to spit or to swallow

the patience and wisdom

coming with age

are fast becoming

my favorite shoes to wear

.

as my own horseshit

and the shenanigans of others

become less excusable

with each passing day

every birthday candle wished upon and blown

.

there comes a point

when you’ve been told

you know better

.

repeated behaviors are either psychosis

or selfish forms of masturbation

such as the poets who write

their daily vengeance poem

scribbled in shit and crayon

on unsuspecting

psych ward facebook walls

.

god

grant me the serenity

to zip my lips when called for

.

to know when to spit

and when to swallow

.

but mostly

when to say

fuck off

dipshit

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