Poetry competition CLOSED 31st January 2015 5:43pm
WINNER
Allison_Wonderland
Allison_Wonderland
RUNNER-UP:
JohnFeddeler
Pick A List--II
(List 1)
I decide not to tell her
I come from the New York
where too many people I once knew
are now nothing more than dust:
scattered in fields, dumped in oceans, resting on mantle-tops,
or buried, rotting, marked only by names and artificial quotes
engraved in concrete blocks absent of flowers.
I decide not to tell her
I come from the New York
where those
who twisted knives in stomachs
or shot bullets through skulls
with impeccable aim I might add (if of course I told her)
are now free to buy their drugs,
or prostitutes,
or expensive chains and sneakers,
or whatever it is killers buy;
while the cops
climb chain link fences to arrest teenagers for smoking weed,
or follow fathers home from work to write speeding tickets,
or sit around to eat donuts,
or whatever it is cops do.
Instead, I decide to tell her
I am from the New York
where on subways I meet Chileans
who wear huge smiles
as they play songs on charangos
made of armadillo shells.
I tell her
I am from the New York
where I meet Puerto Rican families
who carry fishing poles to Orchard Beach
drinking beers as their kids build sand castles
more elaborate than the homes they live in.
I tell her
I am from the New York
where I meet a homeless man
who makes sculptures
out of anything he can find
because that is his "passion."
And you know what she tells me?
She tells me
"The next time someone asks where you're from,
you can tell them you live in the New York
where you meet a twenty-six year old
blonde girl from Moscow
who can read right through you,
and this way, you can continue
to be as opaque as fogged glass
and avoid revealing anything about
where you come from."
It was then that I knew
I would marry this girl
whose accent annoyed me.
List #3
http://www.zawaj.com/askbilqis/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/man-smoking-silhouette.jpg
He took a photograph from up close.
Blind folded her so not to see him.
Making a collage of her
on his wall,
the perfect fantasy victim.
He would like her dead.
He downs a bottle of Seaweed ,
She screams as he stubs out his cigarettes.
Her scorched and burning skin, she kept wailing,
as he tried to treat it with toothpaste.
He fed her a Canada Dry can,
that had spoiled and rusted for a month.
Even if she had ran,
she was still going to be hunted for fun.
He wants her dead.
Popping his gum, he looked through tinted windows.
Storm clouds are slowly rolling in,
lightning and thunder, special effects ready
for his private show to begin.
He gets excited with more of her
screams and whimpers,
Repeating and echoing 'Go get her Tiger!'
He laughs and jumps around in circles.
He needs her dead.
Her tears fail to stop,
as she feels and smells her own blood.
That impending doom ate at her mind
and even deeper in her gut.
Along with his anxious hysterics,
he cuts her blouse,
starting with the cute pink buttons.
The smell of death grips her spine,
whispering in her ear,
"How about we practice before the real run?"
She was much better off dead.
http://smspk.kalpoint.com/modules/wallpapers-submit/images/Sad-Girl-1273730628.jpg
List #1
Songs for Lost Girls #1
After the coffee and donuts,
the glass of chardonnay,
he’ll push her beneath the ocean.
Make her breathe mouthfuls
of briny water, or cotton,
or mothballs. Macabre sonatas
will rasp from her lungs. Memories
like bubbles will surface,
a playground with a chain link fence,
shadows of jump-ropers on concrete.
An armadillo mashed to pulp
on I.H. 10. All the fathers and sons
will try to hook her with fishing poles.
She knows in Moscow.the girls
are always sad or cold or crying.
Her pure-white sneakers kicking
at dust, slicking into fins. Her bones
all chalk sticks and toothpick castles
as he holds her under. The sound
she makes as she slips quietly
beneath the shimmering dark.
List #1
Songs for Lost Girls #1
After the coffee and donuts,
the glass of chardonnay,
he’ll push her beneath the ocean.
Make her breathe mouthfuls
of briny water, or cotton,
or mothballs. Macabre sonatas
will rasp from her lungs. Memories
like bubbles will surface,
a playground with a chain link fence,
shadows of jump-ropers on concrete.
An armadillo mashed to pulp
on I.H. 10. All the fathers and sons
will try to hook her with fishing poles.
She knows in Moscow.the girls
are always sad or cold or crying.
Her pure-white sneakers kicking
at dust, slicking into fins. Her bones
all chalk sticks and toothpick castles
as he holds her under. The sound
she makes as she slips quietly
beneath the shimmering dark.
http://www.piz18.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Sad-Girl-312x500.gif
List #2
Songs for Lost Girls #2
The first thing is to tie the baby elephant
to the pole. You can prod her, poke her,
she’ll never dream of flight. Poems
flow from nights that scrawl
like fingernails across your back.
I slice peaches, see blood. We ditch
school, drown the chemistry books.
You have me at the lake, though you’ve
had me everywhere, on the pavement,
bent over a sink, against a refrigerator
in Arizona. My mother fixes breakfast.
Aspirin in the cereal. In the milk.
The row of girls on the horizon,
the long black curtains of their hair.
I’ll take one bus, then another.
List #2
Songs for Lost Girls #2
The first thing is to tie the baby elephant
to the pole. You can prod her, poke her,
she’ll never dream of flight. Poems
flow from nights that scrawl
like fingernails across your back.
I slice peaches, see blood. We ditch
school, drown the chemistry books.
You have me at the lake, though you’ve
had me everywhere, on the pavement,
bent over a sink, against a refrigerator
in Arizona. My mother fixes breakfast.
Aspirin in the cereal. In the milk.
The row of girls on the horizon,
the long black curtains of their hair.
I’ll take one bus, then another.
http://lindawagner.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/sad-girl-225x300.jpg
List #3
Songs for Lost Girls #3
Tuesday and all the girls are drowning.
I can’t think, what with their seaweed
hair tangling in my thoughts. I heard
a girl fell to her death in Canada.
We are all sepia photographs and clove
cigarettes. Daddy smacks me for chewing
my gum too loud. Smacks me harder
if the tears fall. Something inside me
is unfurling to pine boxes, the lick
of satin. The mouth of the toothpaste
one blue-black bruise. There’s a tiger
under my bed, storm clouds gathering
beneath my pillow. I‘ll dream of plunging
elevators, my long-dead mother. Girls
in red dresses, the vase aching to be
filled. The terrible things my buttons
speak of, their threaded eyes seeing all.
List #3
Songs for Lost Girls #3
Tuesday and all the girls are drowning.
I can’t think, what with their seaweed
hair tangling in my thoughts. I heard
a girl fell to her death in Canada.
We are all sepia photographs and clove
cigarettes. Daddy smacks me for chewing
my gum too loud. Smacks me harder
if the tears fall. Something inside me
is unfurling to pine boxes, the lick
of satin. The mouth of the toothpaste
one blue-black bruise. There’s a tiger
under my bed, storm clouds gathering
beneath my pillow. I‘ll dream of plunging
elevators, my long-dead mother. Girls
in red dresses, the vase aching to be
filled. The terrible things my buttons
speak of, their threaded eyes seeing all.
http://www.desicomments.com/dc1/04/90069/900691.jpg
List #4
Songs for Lost Girls #4
She wants to bury the world in her mouth
so she can taste it. Words like tongues,
licking. Licking. I ache to lean against
the gravestone, my bones are so tired.
Back at the house the tofu is like flesh,
Mommy’s dresser littered with fig candles
from Morocco. Her body a map of scars
and sadness, black heels jarring against
pale calves. Daddy says girls are filled
with too much rain. Like divining rods
you can use them to probe for water.
My hands fluent in lizards in the grass,
the sailboat in the bottle. The cameo
of night pale at my throat, its black
flush spreading through my dress.
Marking me for dead.
List #4
Songs for Lost Girls #4
She wants to bury the world in her mouth
so she can taste it. Words like tongues,
licking. Licking. I ache to lean against
the gravestone, my bones are so tired.
Back at the house the tofu is like flesh,
Mommy’s dresser littered with fig candles
from Morocco. Her body a map of scars
and sadness, black heels jarring against
pale calves. Daddy says girls are filled
with too much rain. Like divining rods
you can use them to probe for water.
My hands fluent in lizards in the grass,
the sailboat in the bottle. The cameo
of night pale at my throat, its black
flush spreading through my dress.
Marking me for dead.
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fYfmI2r_gE/T-QLVEUBIvI/AAAAAAAAChw/hAqJo9c0sJw/s640/sad+alone+girls+miss+u+crying+love+wallpapers+(1).jpg
List #5
Songs for Lost Girls #5
Daddy says there’s nothing prettier
than a pretty girl with a rifle.
His hand resting at the back
of my neck, caked in dirt
and sweat. In Nebraska there
are bodies in the corn mazes.
We’ll go hunting on the mountain.
That time you opened me like a fish,
painting the jewelry of my body,
the rooms of my abuse.
The sad little eskimo in his igloo
on the shelf, watching as you lick
the salt from my lips. I’ll
drape myself over the broken tractor
in the overgrown wheat field.
Let your head fall in my lap.
In my mind writing notes to the dead,
laying out dresses for the funerals.
List #5
Songs for Lost Girls #5
Daddy says there’s nothing prettier
than a pretty girl with a rifle.
His hand resting at the back
of my neck, caked in dirt
and sweat. In Nebraska there
are bodies in the corn mazes.
We’ll go hunting on the mountain.
That time you opened me like a fish,
painting the jewelry of my body,
the rooms of my abuse.
The sad little eskimo in his igloo
on the shelf, watching as you lick
the salt from my lips. I’ll
drape myself over the broken tractor
in the overgrown wheat field.
Let your head fall in my lap.
In my mind writing notes to the dead,
laying out dresses for the funerals.
a silence of trumpets (list 2)
it was the chemistry that drew me to her,
as it was with all cautious, hesitant lovers.
we shared so many commonalities, even down
to the bowl of peaches near the refrigerator
that we savored after lovemaking.
the heat of our passion was as intense as
Arizona’s great desert as her fingernails
engraved the rhythm of her desire across
my back. & now, on these lonely nights, I
maintain a vial of bitter pills at my bedside,
as if aspirin might cure a broken heart.
where does she rush to, her heels clicking on
the pavement that leads to the bus on the next
corner? she doesn’t realize the extent of my
sorrow, or the terror of being left so utterly alone.
alone & pursued by the great white elephant of
my nightmare, that assaults my integrity, my
sanity. the swirling shadows & the noises cascade
upon me. the door is flung open; the rushing air
rustles the curtains.
surely, it is my doom. I withdraw my revolver, my only
defense, from the drawer, & fire blindly into the darkness…
the bullet was never meant for her.
Voltaire: ‘It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished,
unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.’
it was the chemistry that drew me to her,
as it was with all cautious, hesitant lovers.
we shared so many commonalities, even down
to the bowl of peaches near the refrigerator
that we savored after lovemaking.
the heat of our passion was as intense as
Arizona’s great desert as her fingernails
engraved the rhythm of her desire across
my back. & now, on these lonely nights, I
maintain a vial of bitter pills at my bedside,
as if aspirin might cure a broken heart.
where does she rush to, her heels clicking on
the pavement that leads to the bus on the next
corner? she doesn’t realize the extent of my
sorrow, or the terror of being left so utterly alone.
alone & pursued by the great white elephant of
my nightmare, that assaults my integrity, my
sanity. the swirling shadows & the noises cascade
upon me. the door is flung open; the rushing air
rustles the curtains.
surely, it is my doom. I withdraw my revolver, my only
defense, from the drawer, & fire blindly into the darkness…
the bullet was never meant for her.
Voltaire: ‘It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished,
unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.’
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous said:<< post removed >>
I definitely want one. I'm looking to do something along the lines of a doctor's report, a follow on from the insane asylum piece.[/quote]
Will do! Have to finish up this one first, as I already have two going, but will set up another as soon as I get a winner chosen for this, after it times out.
I definitely want one. I'm looking to do something along the lines of a doctor's report, a follow on from the insane asylum piece.[/quote]
Will do! Have to finish up this one first, as I already have two going, but will set up another as soon as I get a winner chosen for this, after it times out.
List #3
Sex After A Beach
we photograph seaweed as chinese art
swift lines like cigarette smoke
you chainsmoke and suck on travel sized toothpaste tubes
to cover it up
i keep gum in the car for after swallowing all the second hand
and saltwater when i am pushed ashore
by storm clouds coming down from Canada.
its suddenly cold
as we climb into the back of the heaterless car
holding tight to one another to keep warm.
our bodies pressed together against the leather
as the tiger in you escapes,
tears the buttons off my sweater
and claims i won't be needing it anymore
by the time you are through with me.
Sex After A Beach
we photograph seaweed as chinese art
swift lines like cigarette smoke
you chainsmoke and suck on travel sized toothpaste tubes
to cover it up
i keep gum in the car for after swallowing all the second hand
and saltwater when i am pushed ashore
by storm clouds coming down from Canada.
its suddenly cold
as we climb into the back of the heaterless car
holding tight to one another to keep warm.
our bodies pressed together against the leather
as the tiger in you escapes,
tears the buttons off my sweater
and claims i won't be needing it anymore
by the time you are through with me.
