Submissions by toniscales (Lost Girl)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I am very critical of my own work but I tend to love intensely, and writing is an emotional release and catharsis I can't seem to resist.
Portia
Their words came all day and night,
soft and sinuous as whiskey.
A gentle hammering while I cocooned
into a porcelain doll. It’s useless
to say our hands are made of china,
what with their faint pink cast.
I once found a silver filigree necklace
in the spaces of my chipped teeth.
In the parlor all the records skip,
their tiny hairline fissures. My brother
slithers through the crawlspace, past
snakes in dust dresses, the bones
of a small mouse. We tie doll shoes
on wire hangers, our parents’ screams
traveling the ashen...
soft and sinuous as whiskey.
A gentle hammering while I cocooned
into a porcelain doll. It’s useless
to say our hands are made of china,
what with their faint pink cast.
I once found a silver filigree necklace
in the spaces of my chipped teeth.
In the parlor all the records skip,
their tiny hairline fissures. My brother
slithers through the crawlspace, past
snakes in dust dresses, the bones
of a small mouse. We tie doll shoes
on wire hangers, our parents’ screams
traveling the ashen...
775 reads
4 Comments
Blue Angels
(written for StarGazer-kayla's "Fantastic Dreamscapes or Objects" competition)
A Delta Break-through shatters the sky
in a six-point flower of smoke.
Even your mother is rendered dumb
by the inexplicable beauty of flight.
My eyes are seduced by twin flames
of thunderous eagles. Your gaze
mimics mine, hungering for precision
of angles, rhythm. Flesh.
They're inextricably linked
as light glints off wings,
some forgotten child's skipping stones
rubbed smooth and clean.
He hurls them...
A Delta Break-through shatters the sky
in a six-point flower of smoke.
Even your mother is rendered dumb
by the inexplicable beauty of flight.
My eyes are seduced by twin flames
of thunderous eagles. Your gaze
mimics mine, hungering for precision
of angles, rhythm. Flesh.
They're inextricably linked
as light glints off wings,
some forgotten child's skipping stones
rubbed smooth and clean.
He hurls them...
926 reads
6 Comments
Celeste
Brambles choke the farmhouse interior
while antique frames tilt upon the walls.
It’s all so vaguely suggestive. There
are too many names for water. For your
hands at my throat. We’ve been taught
everything about our sex is wrong,
how not to touch the canaries lying
dead at the bottom of the cage. In
the bathtub I push faceless dolls
underwater, listen to them suffocate.
Oh the trees that grow beneath my dress.
The ghosts of dead children dance behind
the teacups, their laughter intensifying
my migraines. Meanwhile...
while antique frames tilt upon the walls.
It’s all so vaguely suggestive. There
are too many names for water. For your
hands at my throat. We’ve been taught
everything about our sex is wrong,
how not to touch the canaries lying
dead at the bottom of the cage. In
the bathtub I push faceless dolls
underwater, listen to them suffocate.
Oh the trees that grow beneath my dress.
The ghosts of dead children dance behind
the teacups, their laughter intensifying
my migraines. Meanwhile...
674 reads
6 Comments
Natalie
Tell me what to do with all
this wanting. The bric-a-brac,
the dark hurdy-gurdy. I collect
what I can of the dead. Blood
in the pencil jar. In the shampoo,
the conditioner, the crock pot.
It's hard to tell what's real
and what’s not. The abandoned silo
where they found three bodies.
How we grope each other beneath
the wooden staves. My locket
stuffed with your pale, tiny hairs.
That time I dropped like a doll
in the embalming room. Grandma
claims I’m too skinny, gorges me
on Mars Bars and banana cream...
this wanting. The bric-a-brac,
the dark hurdy-gurdy. I collect
what I can of the dead. Blood
in the pencil jar. In the shampoo,
the conditioner, the crock pot.
It's hard to tell what's real
and what’s not. The abandoned silo
where they found three bodies.
How we grope each other beneath
the wooden staves. My locket
stuffed with your pale, tiny hairs.
That time I dropped like a doll
in the embalming room. Grandma
claims I’m too skinny, gorges me
on Mars Bars and banana cream...
646 reads
1 Comment
Listening to an Irish Lullaby
Sleep, my child, sleep deep
as your mother waits to die
and the music swathes you
in such glowing arms.
You stand at the gilded mouth
of heaven while tenuous voices
descend to torture and impale
my molten core,
my heart like one bleary eye
grown weary of staying open.
I have seen the splintering
vision of rose-veined glass
in a church where I wept
at the incense of his remains.
I have savored the ghostly
helms of gondolas gone
swaying in their inexorable
waters where all my children drowned....
as your mother waits to die
and the music swathes you
in such glowing arms.
You stand at the gilded mouth
of heaven while tenuous voices
descend to torture and impale
my molten core,
my heart like one bleary eye
grown weary of staying open.
I have seen the splintering
vision of rose-veined glass
in a church where I wept
at the incense of his remains.
I have savored the ghostly
helms of gondolas gone
swaying in their inexorable
waters where all my children drowned....
801 reads
5 Comments
Song of King Krypto
907 reads
4 Comments
Autumn
My mouth seeks to learn
the texture of ships’ anchors,
the scandalous necklines
of green negligees.
We’re still haunted by swing sets
and see-saws. Our mothers
once Technicolor, now white static
and hum. We pray for fall to arrive
so the ghosts will abandon our rooms.
Instead go licking round the edges
of the house. You see, only the cold
and fog will tear them from me.
That time you wrote of silence.
Walking into the hotel room,
a wordless stripping of my clothes.
I am so bloodless tonight you can see
right...
the texture of ships’ anchors,
the scandalous necklines
of green negligees.
We’re still haunted by swing sets
and see-saws. Our mothers
once Technicolor, now white static
and hum. We pray for fall to arrive
so the ghosts will abandon our rooms.
Instead go licking round the edges
of the house. You see, only the cold
and fog will tear them from me.
That time you wrote of silence.
Walking into the hotel room,
a wordless stripping of my clothes.
I am so bloodless tonight you can see
right...
734 reads
4 Comments
Barbara
for Barbara Michaels
She knows he's leaving tonight,
the last time
she'll be softly fucked.
It's all scalloped hemlines
and girls named Amaranth.
She buys a shell-pink corset
of watered silk,
two bottles each
of Shalimar and grenadine.
She begins making plans,
locates the finest oolong.
Stays awake baking cream puffs
and madeleines.
She slathers her legs
in vanilla and butter.
Draws plans for a ha-ha.
A knot garden. A pergola.
Searches the mossy bottom
of the fountain...
She knows he's leaving tonight,
the last time
she'll be softly fucked.
It's all scalloped hemlines
and girls named Amaranth.
She buys a shell-pink corset
of watered silk,
two bottles each
of Shalimar and grenadine.
She begins making plans,
locates the finest oolong.
Stays awake baking cream puffs
and madeleines.
She slathers her legs
in vanilla and butter.
Draws plans for a ha-ha.
A knot garden. A pergola.
Searches the mossy bottom
of the fountain...
612 reads
3 Comments
In the Mental Hospital
(written for Redaccent's "Observational Expressions" competition)
The woman hides behind the jet-black
yet luminous, silky curtain
of her hair.
The room is silent.
She is like a swimmer stepped
from a pool of dark water
and dripping with grief.
I can only imagine how
the three of them held her down,
buried themselves inside her;
how they craved a taste
of that beauty, to slip
into the skin of something right.
I ache to comfort her, to tell her
something hollow and trite,
that something good must come
from every...
The woman hides behind the jet-black
yet luminous, silky curtain
of her hair.
The room is silent.
She is like a swimmer stepped
from a pool of dark water
and dripping with grief.
I can only imagine how
the three of them held her down,
buried themselves inside her;
how they craved a taste
of that beauty, to slip
into the skin of something right.
I ache to comfort her, to tell her
something hollow and trite,
that something good must come
from every...
665 reads
3 Comments
The Collage Artist
for Joseph Cornell
You leafed through bits of paper,
discarded starlets,
fragments of others’ hope.
Blue swan, opaque rhythm,
perpetual dance.
Stroboscopic saints
were numbered, pigeonholed.
A doll was your mother;
trees grew beneath her dress
when she became a flower.
Planets and lace,
a house in your palm.
The grid across the water:
vast, impassable,
as if rippling were the unity.
The parachute girl
could not land on your heart.
The glass cracked by your own hand,
boxed-in child appropriated,...
You leafed through bits of paper,
discarded starlets,
fragments of others’ hope.
Blue swan, opaque rhythm,
perpetual dance.
Stroboscopic saints
were numbered, pigeonholed.
A doll was your mother;
trees grew beneath her dress
when she became a flower.
Planets and lace,
a house in your palm.
The grid across the water:
vast, impassable,
as if rippling were the unity.
The parachute girl
could not land on your heart.
The glass cracked by your own hand,
boxed-in child appropriated,...
750 reads
6 Comments
Whispers
your voice is its own poetry
sex-dripped noir
mouth in black and white
slain over mine
tongues stitched together
your breath
sings of the city
smoke
alleyways
gaslight
your tan trench coat
shielding my naked flesh
from the night
you galvanize me
but this love is a prison
a room I cannot escape
the walls papered
in your words
your moans at my ears
sometimes I get chills
thinking of you
fingers lightly fluttering
down my spine
if I'm alone and can't...
sex-dripped noir
mouth in black and white
slain over mine
tongues stitched together
your breath
sings of the city
smoke
alleyways
gaslight
your tan trench coat
shielding my naked flesh
from the night
you galvanize me
but this love is a prison
a room I cannot escape
the walls papered
in your words
your moans at my ears
sometimes I get chills
thinking of you
fingers lightly fluttering
down my spine
if I'm alone and can't...
953 reads
6 Comments
Reading Joshua Miller's The Mao Game
(written for Crim's "Addiction" competition)
I look at you, burn
as if I were beautiful,
eat up your world
to suck at my fingers.
I could love you as you are,
aquiline and strange,
screaming mouth seared
by the kiss of the wrong.
Long ago the specterboys left home,
motherless, thirsty comets,
tongues gouging holes
in the hearts of fatherless girls.
In a foreign country,
I stare down at my arms,
squint to see
your track marks
Where sweet-brown junk
eased music through veins...
I look at you, burn
as if I were beautiful,
eat up your world
to suck at my fingers.
I could love you as you are,
aquiline and strange,
screaming mouth seared
by the kiss of the wrong.
Long ago the specterboys left home,
motherless, thirsty comets,
tongues gouging holes
in the hearts of fatherless girls.
In a foreign country,
I stare down at my arms,
squint to see
your track marks
Where sweet-brown junk
eased music through veins...
643 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by toniscales (Lost Girl)