takautumia.

the first thing you have to understand is that there aren’t actually any bars.

there never are on the things that really keep us caged.

sight, however, is an unreliable thing. 

the second thing is that being homeless doesn’t mean you don’t have a home. 

it just means you lost it somewhere along the line.

keys get stolen. things happen. and sometimes your Somewhere slips through your fingers and gets trundled away by the current before you have a chance to white-hanky the river to a dual for deed and title. 

the third thing involves rock collectors. 

in our experience, an interest in fossilization generally indicates a tendency in the geologist to not consider the eras from which they collect quite so ‘bygone’ as others might. 

so, now.

Sorella still sees phantom metal cylinders on passing windows sometimes. 

she knows she doesn’t live in a basement anymore, 

but shell-shock is weird

and her nature abhors repetition. 

The Often Orphan used to have a castle of his own; a castle by the sea. 

and yet, his name still remains appropriate. 

the point is that what is had can be lost can be found again, 

but the back and forth of it all gets really harrowing, 

so he doesn’t especially enjoy talk regarding ownership of property of late.

Mildred’s rocks are known, and Mildred’s rocks are famed. 

this does not mean that Mildred’s rocks are loved or liked or even dead. 

but Mildred is smarter than she looks, and she’s figuring out how to play Pandora properly. give her time, and she’ll get it right. 

in the mean time, the less fear you show the rocks, 

the less they’re likely to bite.

panning for gold - ben sollee

having kept faith

the sea is my church, 

and i haven’t been to worship in almost six months.

haven’t been able. 

my legs can’t span the distance to the sand where i used to work out the knots that tend to grow in things, when you live;
they’re a little stuck, of late

in the lonely kind of concrete that goes on for miles but doesn’t pulse with use

rather, cracks from salt and weather...

though your name, my holiest love, is still in all my passwords. 

i fell into this house the way one falls up wet wooden stairs -
with surprise. not without bruising. thinking ‘better up than down.’ 

i meant to in the way you mean to marry after widowhood;

which is to say, i didn’t really mean to at all. 

there’s a monster here who doesn’t know he’s monstrous, 
doesn’t mean to be

a sad little creature whose nature is a wonder even to himself

and who still hasn’t gotten over the daily shock of looking in the mirror. 

when we bow our heads at dinner, i pray instead that he be allowed ignorance

or that he might at least forget about the mirrors. 

when you are sitting at the table like this, palms open, 

a certain opening of the heart is expected. 

yet, closed i remain. two seasons have passed, and still i am no convert. 

captive’s syndrome does not take to the sort of soil i carry within, 

and i sport no blossoms of love for the ways of the place i continue waking up to. 

i’ve begged you more than once to come collect me, 

and it’s not that you haven’t tried. it’s not time yet. i know this. but here i stay, 

on your temple floor. devoted. anticipating. 

dear my saviour, dear my love

come take me home. 

young bride - midlake

oidis.

to be heard and understood by all is a dangerous dream
and Marguerite makes no purchases where the propaganda is concerned;
birth defects which cause one’s skin to be made of megaphones tend to kill that particular desire.



public speaking is only an art when voluntarily done.

the fact of all matters will always be as follows:

sex sells, in all degrees of perversion,

and erasure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

unlike eggs, which become exactly what they’re cracked up to be -

even when that something is sidewalk chalk;

it happens sometimes, if the basket gets dropped

like Marguerite’s was.


it’s unfortunate, because (as she’ll be the first to tell you)

chickenchildren are really quite hard to get back into their shells post-release,

the presence or lack of feathers notwithstanding.

either way, there’s not much to be done, 

so she fries up an omelette and pulls out a fork... 

though, this time there’s a little less savouring in the consumption than usual.

‘kewarasan,” she hums as she scrapes the bottom of the bowl.

“itu rusak... o kewarasan.”

sinoniem.

medicine is no exact science,

but Doctor Physician’s patients still always die.



one would think the line between surgery and slice/dice would be less fine.



it takes a steady hand to navigate amalgamous waters,

let alone the use of a scalpel.

the [ ] doctor blames Giles de Tourettes for his difficulties in the OR,

but a playwright would likely pinpoint motivation as the main concern;

sharp objects put into the hands of those with something to prove never bodes well,

and there’s no room at the table for practitioners and their chips. 



and then there’s the mask to consider -
the white gauze which is meant to soften the pronouncements made by the orifice it covers
simply works to muffle it,

and will never conceal his eyes.


those unnervingly blood red eyes.



one is supposed to shrink from the sight of spilling crimson,

not respond to it.

perhaps that’s part of the problem.

Dr. Physician’s ‘patients’ will never know.

demeler.

you already know lilith’s story.

everyone knows lilith’s story.

& yet, somehow no one knows lilith’s story.

ladies & gentlemen: the problem.

& so she takes to weaving it from bits of tangled string unthreaded from swallows’ homes

with knitting needles newly found & freely flexed,

sharpened to a point by reality & the doings of man & the prefix wo-.

there’s much more to come,

but not much to be done.

& lilith knows it.

cleaning the kitchen again while watching all the counts rise,

she laments the theory of the first pancake

& offers a prayer to st. jude.

omsvep.

mildred has a box.

it’s a big box.

mildred’s box is filled with stones.

there’s a lot of stones.

sometimes, she throws them.

others, she fills her pockets with them before going on long jogs.

& still others, she counts them.

they’re magical stones - overflowing with conundrums.

mildred hates them, but uses them for ID at bars sometimes.

they stay hidden under her bed, tucked safely away in their ebony square,

until someone walks into the room.

then she begins the ‘displaying them proudly with seeming reluctance’ game.

she’s quite good.

yes, mildred has a box of rocks.

or does the box of rocks have mildred?

sanhi.

the clack of her strict black boots delighting her with every step,

Enna circles her charge & puts on her game face.

she’s not being paid to look pretty... er, menacing, after all.

she pats her patient on the rump & lets her hand slide up the girl’s spine & close around her throat. lowering her gaze to match her charge’s, she squeezes.

‘alright, my darling. game time is now over. playtime, however, is just beginning.’

making sure he’s watching,

Enna brings the whip over her head & down on the girl’s back in one swift, clean motion.

the customer’s eyes burn with desire.

the charge utters not a sound,

& faints.

occupational hazard.

kesan.

Enna french inhales & gives the whip a crack for effect -

some fetishes tend to overlap.

the charge looks up at her,

eyes sunken & will-less;

complete control -

it’s a nice job perk.

letting the black leather slither & snake across the backs of the girl’s bare thighs,

Enna moves to check the bindings.

they’re holding perfectly. this one barely struggles at all.

she-bari’s still got it, she thinks, then laughs aloud abruptly at herself.

gotta love a little mental domme-humor to break up the night.

she flicks her cigarette & steadies her hand for a second blow.

[shrug]

it’s a living.

leuto.

Sorella misses the hot water.

pulsing beads on back,

fire slipping down throat.

scorching beat playing on fingers spread wide, wide, wide for the receiving,

the clean burn dancing dark like demons on all hallow’s eve.

Sorella misses the cold water.

cubes of paralyzed molecules clinking about,

making a tasty ruckus & giving off steam a-plenty

turning skin pink like its literal polar opposite -

the same, but different.

Sorella misses the water.

those Above don’t realize that their damn search for delicious ended years ago -

the answer resides within the last chapter.

it’s temperature, temperature!

liquid & temperature.

Sorella sighs.

Sorella longs.

agulla.

Ezra’s chugging,

but the lactose level just won’t decrease.

(what’s our meaning? you decide.)

fourth wall broken,

let’s watch, dear reader

as the gallon challenge becomes the old man & the sea.

(‘s all in the references.)

this milky moby dick will not be caught

& our hero oughtn’t be doomed to fail;

might happen regardless.

so the sorrowed sisyphus rolls on,

not realizing he possesses the power to

invert

convert

subvert

tip the boat & total the car, Icarus!

release the safety belt & try your wings for once, man!

take your way out!

he won’t. can’t. something.

we just sigh & call him Ishmael.

kurek.

destruction breeds destruction

& setting her one-eyed gaze on the physician’s assitant,

Minerva made a mess.

you may have seen the body count in the papers?

but these are desperate, gorgeous times

& zombies walk the earth when the spirit moves.

out of ammo,

she stoppered up her burning lungs, shouldered her shotty,

& embraced the good Mr. Tandy come alive again,

knowing it might well be the last she’d ever bestow upon another form

(read this with romanticism rolling on your mental reel-to-reel, dear reader)

& so they skipped (gore-lumbered) into the sunset,

Minerva clutching her bandolier,

Tandy’s fingers twitching ‘round his guns -

necromancers & abhorsens both,

staring down their humanity.

facing facts never looked so good.

sentim.

Yvaine is collapsing beneath the weight of imploding galaxies.

celestial bodies don’t always dance; sometimes they stumble,

& in the space of those faltered steps, there is a kind of painful silence -

the sort that descends when someone voices a question

& no one knows the answer.

the wrench is gone, or at least, she can’t feel its weight in her palms any longer

& the stars have ceased to consult her before moving on or off their orbital patterns.

a layman’s hands are his welfare,

& so, it seems this month she starves.

(& at the word, Enna cracks a smile)

heavenly bodies may well be the answer to one of these ‘unanswerables’,

but system overload is the main malfunction of this engine;

the diagnostic readout has been screaming it in little red digital rat pellets for days now.

sigh, sigh, sigh.

it never rains but it pours.

aonair.

our words will be simple, our passages to the point.

The Neighborhood believes itself drifted into decay;

in the ‘burbs it goes about its business, quiet & neglected.

but today, we’ll be magnanimous for a moment

& mow the frost-tipped lawns,

giving brief attention the sagging rooftops above our red noses.

The Often Orphan & Sosh are at odds

& poor Charybdis just cowers in the corner,

willing the weedwhackers to a volume greater than the voices.

she’s a little liftoff-challenged these days.

Chimaera gets it

& picks her up in his shiny new somethingorother when the dulcet tones of discord dominate the sound waves at home.

many a night she hops in beside him

& speeds off to recreate that from which she’s fleeing.

& through this problem of nature vs nuture

the mowers drone on.