Somewhere at the Bottom of the Morgue
I rarely miss anyone enough for it to be painful
I miss time
But the tangible slips
It is leaky-faucet drips
People are context
People are stillborn
I miss hands and mouths
I mourn words
I mourn touch
I hold funerals for sunbeams that fell through leaves long since passed
You will find me penning epithets to hungry breath lost on cold air
I will leave flowers where music once rang
I will dig holes 6 ft deep for ghosts
And leave the bodies to rot, carrion-feast
And I will drown weightless in their graves as I stitch myself to phantoms
Boulevard of broken hearts
I lost my heart two years ago - I gave it all away.
It was love, I knew, I swore it so: at least that's what I told myself.
Our love was strong as iron, incorruptible as the platinum of the band that he proposed with. We built from these foundations a winding concrete path, secreting all the treasures that we bore within our breasts, the gifts of time, our fledging love, as it leaped, it soared, took flight.
But then we saw the pavement, was not at all that smooth, for despite our good intentions, the cracks tore through us, tore right through.
The arguments were like a lava stream, igniting benevolent skies.
But no passionate flood is self-sustaining, however true its plea, for all at once, the summit imploded ,and all our love dripped through.
There it congealed upon the floor, now void of all devotion, for when I gave my heart away, who knew it not to be that irrevocable love, but cruel blind charity.
I walk now along that boulevard, and though the cracks do show, my feet run smooth on cobblestones, for in them beats my vibrant heart, now whole in majesty, forever now for me.
#Author #writer #blog #love #fantasy #fiction #dream
Blog - hannahvernon.co.uk
I am Me
The world moved differently on the other side of the glass.
In a way I couldn’t quite fathom.
After the event.
Before, I had still been different.
But in a better way.
I knew myself. I loved myself. I had respect for myself.
And I understood.
Of course. I didn’t understand everybody else; but I did understand the world. And how it worked. And how it moved. And how it was meant to be.
And I felt at one.
I often thought I should write down my knowledge, just in case I ever forgot.
Perhaps I was too embarrassed.
Perhaps I never had time.
And then I lost it.
Or, rather, it was taken from me.
Ripped from my mind.
Torn from my spirit.
In a planned way. It was an attempt to make me like them.
I could have stopped it. I should have fought back.
But my instinct, like yours, was to plough on. To not give up. Keep on keeping on.
And when I realised, it was too late. I couldn’t find my footing; couldn’t get back in step with the world.
I was walking through treacle; watching through Lucant glass, the same, but distorted. Always a beat behind.
Of course, nobody noticed. It was a fine impersonation of myself, indeed. Perhaps I deserved an Oscar!
Oh, there were plenty of clues. I couldn’t type; I couldn’t spell; hell, I couldn’t even speak properly sometimes. But that was ignored. Except by those who used it to their advantage.
But, stop! I hear you cry – you’re a fairly switched on guy. You know your mind.
Well, yes, that’s true, indeed, I do.
But I only know it now because I recognised it from a distance, as it floated from me through the air.
For many years I wandered, trying to get it back; to relocate. To no avail.
And then the shock! The shock of that great shock, which shook me; and shook them; and shook us all to our foundations; woke us all to the situation.
A terrible shock! Life evaporated from the room. Screams and tears and questions. And many fears.
But at least it sucked my mind back to me; determined not to let me fail and die.
So now I have my mind; I have my thoughts; and my understanding. And many things have returned to me, within my mind.
Now destiny awaits. Perhaps destruction. And the loss of everything.
Except my mind.
Which now, I anchor firmly.
And cherish most of all.
For I am me;
And that’s enough.
And I am me.
Are You My Best Friend?
The day my little brother went to prison, I cried an endless stream of tears that ran onto the collar of my shirt, making it look like I had a sweaty neck rather than a sibling who wouldn't follow the rules of society. For weeks I sat in my car longer than necessary and listened to the saddest song by Brandon Flowers (the one about the price you pay for doing something bad) and thought about Christmas, and wondered what they served in prison on holidays. For years after that, I hid my embarrassment and only shared what happened with my true friends, and even then I still held some deep-seated belief that I was personally tainted by his actions, because we're all somewhat guilty by association aren't we? Having been brought up Baptist and knowing how to successfully dodge guilt by repentance, I still spent my days properly mortified by the fact that my own brother pointed an air-soft gun (it may as well have been a real gun) at an actual person, demanding money and robbing a place of business. Three separate times.
During the 1990's, the ultimate Friday night ritual for us kids (kids being me and my brother, who hadn't yet committed a felony that would give several people PTSD) was to stay home and watch the TGI Friday lineup; this was usually accompanied by pizza or carry-out from a local restaurant. We loved these nights because it signified the beginning of freedom, as neither of us were very good at sitting still at a desk. For the next two days we had nothing to do, and that was exhilarating for two kids whose favorite thing to do was just that. Oh sure, we'd find activities to do at our leisure: play with our toys, ride our bikes, spend hours trying to dominate the Super Nintendo (Donkey Kong was our forte), but what we really loved about those days was simply being able to choose what to do with our time that we were given. My brother was four years younger than me, and when something exciting came about in our lives (mainly those glorious two days that inevitably came after Friday) he would squeal unabashedly, "Are you my best friend?!" And I would always answer, "Yes, are you my best friend?" There we were, just two best friends, eating pizza and killing giant bumble bees on the Super Nintendo.
My brother was a talented comedian from the moment he could talk. When the Talk Boy recording device came about, my friends and I would listen to "skits" my brother would perform and record in fast and slow motion for hours. His impressions of people were so spot-on that you could give him any person to imitate and subsequently find yourself in tears from laughing so hard at the ridiculous voices and words coming out of his mouth. When the Hale Bopp orbit was visible for a month in 1995, my brother wrote a song about it. He was 7. In high school, before he dropped out and things went mostly downhill, he wrote a song about our seemingly evil gym coach to the tune of Nada Surf's "Popular" and anyone who's heard it still remembers the lyrics, 20 years later. I like to remember him that way; a kid who wrote songs and drew pictures and wore his underwear on the outside of his pants just to make my mom laugh.
It's spring of 2019 and I'm on my way to visit my little brother at Blackburn Correctional Complex. It's still prison, but it's referred to as a "camp" because the inmates have more freedom (most of them are non-violent offenders, so it's not high security). The shock of it all has worn off by now, and we can interact as if we both haven't been punched in the gut by life choices. My brother steps out in his khaki prison garb, and we hug tentatively. Before he went to prison we hadn't hugged since we were little. Our conversations revolve around movies, politics, a little family (at this point, through death and circumstance, we have very few family members left to speak of). My favorite part of the visit is when he talks about his fellow inmates, in his own animated way: the guy who was a plaintiff on Judge Judy, the ex-wrestler with the high-pitched baby voice, or the female guard with the limp who looks exactly like Kevin Bacon. There has rarely been a moment with my brother where I didn't have tears in my eyes from laughing.
As the years go on, I am able to see some of the positives of what happened: my brother is within a few hours drive, he is off the streets and not ruining his life or other peoples', and he's still the same person who could make me belly laugh all those years ago (with considerably rougher edges). The truth is, I lost my brother long before he was locked up. Life took many turns for us, and sometimes we wandered through dark alleys; I managed to find my way out, and often he got lost. The future can seem bleak and sometimes there's an empty feeling in my chest that I can't seem to fill no matter how hard I try; while he's gone, he's not really gone, and if I had to guess he's probably making someone's drink shoot out of their nose from laughter at this very minute.
I found a lot of things when I lost my brother to prison years ago. Sure, I found that you can love someone and hate them at the same time (that became painfully evident when his mugshot was seemingly everywhere at once on social media and I wanted to launch myself into outer space until it was over). I found that with the emergence of Orange is the New Black, it's become sort of trendy to have a relative in prison. I found that people will change and make mistakes (some with dire consequences) but the past doesn't change. My brother might be a felon, a criminal lost in a dark alley, but there's also a part of him that is still just a silly kid who writes funny songs and imitates people to get a laugh. There might be a small part of him who's still my best friend.
I was a lost child.
I am a lost adult.
My child would never experience being beaten with the belt.
His father tried it once; it did not come to fruition.
For my child’s sake I found my voice and broke this hideous tradition.
Not a lost child.
Not a lost adult.
My child was never hit at all, unlike myself.
I’d rather die than see him cry. To his father, I said “goodbye.”
If only mother had done that for me how different life might be.
We can not change the past.
Yet, we can protect our own.
This story I share with you, my child will never know.
Copyright © 2019
La Ville D’or.
The lad wandered....
Into the forest~deep
For his weapon.....
Where was the sword?
He hoped he’d find it.
His eyes caught
Something bright ‘n’
Dazzling in the ground.
The minute the
Coin was in his hand-
He was no longer
In the forest,
But in a city of gold.
The lad stared at the
Such a grand place!
He smiled at
All the shiny
Paths, & splendor.
Then he walked
Over to the palace.
He thought to himself:
Why was the place empty?
There was no one
To give him a tour of the city.
After a short while,
The sun began to set.
The ground started to shake.
He looked around him..
Piles of bones rattled ’bout
Forming a skeleton army!
The lad felt beads of sweat
Trickling down his forehead,
As the skeletons drew closer
They moved in rhythm
Even sliding toward him.
He was amazed & terrified!
He begged them to let him go.
The skeletons slapped their knees
Then chuckled & shook their heads.
Here was another human
To add to the ones that
Had stumbled into their city.
They came with a feeling-
Of loss, looking for something
That was precious to them.
When they find the gold
Its always hard for them to
Not seize it for themselves
It is too late for them now
To turn back and head home
They are a part of the golden city!
Inspired by the legend/myth: El Dorado.
“I’ve found the perfect woman for me, and she found the perfect guy too, we’re both meant for each other, it’s destiny. It’s a bond that has no replacements, I’m gonna love her for...eternity...
“Um... Hi diary. Mom and dad bought me the best teddy ever!! I play with him all day,
and he likes playing with me too. He’s special,the only one for me,we’re gonna stay together no matter what...and I’m gonna looovvvee him for ever and ever and ever!!!”
Katie lost her tears in kindergarten when the teacher held a mirror to her splotchy face and said, "You're really ugly when you cry. Did you know that?"
She had not known it, and learning that people cared more about her appearance than her feelings came as something of a surprise. It shocked her into silence, a beautiful, terrible quiet, for more than a decade. All that time, she smiled sweetly at inquiries, only saying, "I'm fine," with a very neutral, and surely lovely, face.
She found her tears in the back yard one sultry summer night. She was fifteen and her mother was drunk again, staggering and falling as Katie tried to coax her back inside. They collapsed in a heap on the back stoop, Katie unable to bear her mother's weight anymore.
"You know, I just wanted to be happy," her mother said to the sliver of moon dangling in the sky.
Katie looked up and there they were, her tears scattered across the heavens. They fell into her eyes and watered the ground until she was sure they would drown her. "Me too, mommy," she replied.
The next morning was full of coffee and regrets, long blank stares and subdued sniffles. Katie found her tears again, but carefully guarded them. There was something precious in those little jewels, something she was not ready to share.
Half a lifetime passed before her treasure was revealed, transformed from sparkling, salty drops to prose alive with color. "Such beauty!" people marveled. "Such emotion!" they sighed. And there was Katie, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.
When asked, "What is your inspiration?" Katie beams and says, "I just want to be happy."
(L(p x f) + C(t x s)) - (P x A)
Things I’ve lost:
Miu Miu glasses
I gave good face
I focus on that damn sock:
lost in tangled bedsheets
like the thoughts
on my tripped
Gone to the dryer
We are both strung up
Everytime I think I’ve
the right words
I’m overextended on the metaphors:
I become a meta whore
Losing your life is a sure path to
Finding a penny’s
A sure sign to do good
And lost socks sit silent
Wherever they go:
with nothing to show