Blackout 1.1

Blackout 1.1~writing exercise

Merchant's House,
East Village
1933

Shaking violently,
night spirits,
bizarre happenings;
some say they never
left.

Small children,
bald, tattooed.
Marshmallow Man
frustrated patriarch
died,
stuck around for
Gertrude.
Stayed until her death,
searching for spirits.

One if by land,
two if by sea
hungry man
unpacked his equipment,
temperature cold.
Fisherman gets
skunked.

Heavy red curtains,
eighty-one degrees
in Mrs. Tredwell's bedroom
white marble shadows,
haunted Voice~
no reply.

Two mannequins
bald, yellowed
make a noise,
move the chandelier.

Shuffle dismissed
haunted obsessively,
static
forever.

Mockingbird

On the parlour steps in Virginia
a coalition forms
public outcry
insincere rage
guilt of doing nothing.

Ghosts of the girls
haunt the gravedigger
Mary, seven
Shelby Lynne, three.

He sees them clearly
laughing out loud
somersaulting
across California
fields.

Magnetic skinny love
Willie Rathbone
could not resist
took them swimming,
pools of blood
stain porous tile,
forever tainting memories.

Mockingbird
sings, out of time,
broken songs
in shame.

Dug out of the archives...

...just an old letter..unsent.

Dear....
I hide these feelings well, but that's only because distance allows me to remain shrouded whether in rain, darkness or light. Distance creates a pretense of safety. I look at you from afar with eyes wide shut, wanting to see so much more, yet afraid of needing too much. Toe to toe, fingertip to fingertip, eye to eye my disguise is shattered. Only behind this screen can I effectively hide. Light emitted diodes do not reflect back to you the yearning in my eyes. You cannot see my face lights up as you skate across my mind.

In the real world my disguise would be as thin as the soap bubble that alights upon my skin before bursting into a smattering of slimy wetness. I desperately try to scrub away the filthy residue of thoughts that have stained my flesh,but to no avail. The steam does it's best to cover, but it cannot conceal sound, earnest moans give away inner dialogue.

The pain I bear in keeping my silence is not allowing myself a chance . I write you of my passion rather than tell you. I don't allow myself the freedom of thinking that you could possibly be intrigued, much less have actual emotions. You began as needlepoint to my heart precise in your pinpricks, weaving in and out of my life.. as time passes the stitches so carefully contructed begin to unravel and you strip away more and more, leaving me feeling naked.

These are the thoughts that careen off the rails of mind onto the page, leaving me completely wrecked at the thought of admission. The cost, a penny in the wishing well, another for your thoughts...

Till next time....
I remain,
invisible.

I have nothing left to give,
you have sucked me
bone dry.

Shoo, fly
don't bother me.

For I belong to
nobody.

If all these unspoken words
are uttered
they merely become
broken dreams
which shatter at
your feet.

Not really a haiku, haiku.

Motherless daughter

stumbles through adolescence

rises from ashes