flynnfromblakely

  walls waver and swim the heat waves in my head ripple into the nearby realities and onto every surface i touch i sink into my bed not yet drowning-like but an ophelia’s float imbued to soft fabric i burrow deeper i am restless i am in livid storm-tossed turning false depths both forever, always and nevermore slip into slumber  then reeled back thrashing into the cold into the heat into a desert from all directions a vast nothing water water everywhere but drinking isn’t enough my body forces itself empty  and even food makes me sway tumble fumble for lights my eyes burn shoots through my head like an unseen bullet turn it off  and left in dim purgatory until my maddened mind lets me sleep

 it is a cold life, you know slip through slimy waters that all would seem and deem unproper and sit on the banks i am kept to roam   and kept loose loose hair, loose woman as they said maybe just maybe i had it coming by the cold hands of one of those cruel men   but the drowning icy hands are now mine to wield against those same sorts of fools who would hurt me themselves   the same who say i am lovely and left me to my fate fare badly to my charm and laughter and fair face   unseen in my own reflection seen through other eyes forced to appear as they like even when lure to waters deep   and dark and might i always walked as myself before i knew what i would be   a man killer in frail form so keep your cruel boys back if you wish them to grow to hurt their girls as they hurt me

 My eyes ache in the sudden sunlight. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, only a bright abyss above me. I feel like I might fall, endlessly, up into nothing. Only – I didn’t wake up, I think. I wasn’t sleeping before, was I? That’s odd - I can’t remember a thing. Just sitting here, in the closest nature can get to silence. The birdsong is nice. This place is nice, too. It’s a bit still – the yellowish grass blocking a little of my vision isn’t waving at all – but a bit too much sun is far from the worst thing to endure. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have no clue where I am. Or who I am, although the name Anais come to mind? Is it mine? I could sit here forever. I should get up. My legs ache, too, as I stand and brush dirt from a dull, brown dress, with square buttons. I have to brush dirt off of the low hem, too. Maybe I’ve been here forever, and I just don’t know it. The grass extends on, in a vast, still sea into the distance to my front, only stopping at a wall o...

patchwork predator a false cannibal pacing lonely Persian roads blocking threads to  a better life for any and all poor wanderers a wall teeth forming gates sharper than steel bared in hunger bared in malice the whole of what its tail stings it takes cutting close eating whole tearing skin and crunching bone citing lies that this is right citing others say it’s good but a good thing should never leave you only partial

 i'm always scared of twitching legs and sharp angry builds crawling, hunting scaled down predators enough to terrify any child and i shouldn't judge books from dust jackets or dusty shells or beady livid eye stares but the shell doesn't sway me it's the unbridled rage an unprovoked attack on someone minding their own business it's the pain and the swell for the crime of simply being in the way of something that hates you.

  Blues and a Bad Deal   It’s a cool autumn kinda air when he blows in through the open door Cold night for Clarksdale – but no later than the usual Humid air, cicada-buzz barely there under blues tunes And the clink of drinks in this beat down, no Bourbon Street Place – faded coat on the rack, shaky stroll to the bar.   A few heads turn – regular fellow Sure he plays but oh, he ain’t the something he wants to be. Slim-skinny from the Mississippi misery And the folks guess - his third bar tonight?   No – hat askew, but his hands are calm And no smell of whiskey on where his whiskers should be Jacket smooth as cat-like he sidles up to the counter.   “Scotch, straight please-“ voice rasps in opposition To his hands scooping glass and slinking to the back Sinking into dark corner.   Cat-scratch, patched up guitar as he takes a sip – And plays.   Fingers grip-slide on slicing soul strings Double melody, def...

 i have 17 unread texts on my shiny cracked screen chipped galaxy smartphone.   17 unread texts for things i don’t even ache to avoid easy peasy answers all of two words -   i’m okay i’m studying i’m saying nothing because to be honest there isn’t much to say.   17 little ghosts of ghosted conversations with people i deal with on the daily and they don’t even ask   am i rude? am i cruel for giving a cold shoulder that i barely know i’m bumping them with for forgetting words formed a week ago and seeming oh so icy?   “i forgot” is such a horrible lie to learn since it’s sometimes straightforward truth.   a million messages slip through my sight through my fingers and my mind with all its might cannot catch them. and away slips seventeen.

  self-portrait as a Changeling     from the crib, it was obvious oddity of a child much too quiet, uncrying than a swaddled babe ought to be. there but not, right but off long thin, picking hands and skinny bundle of a body wide eyes like an insect. plain but oh so Fair.   nearly sideways and clothes inside out tear out tags and set out milk for my kind. they know not what to make of me, elf-child sat in the corner quiet and chaos my teachers thinking me a brutish, biting thing skin burnt by the iron in the blood i draw.   scream in speaking, my hands recoil – too bright, too loud taking to human’s wisdom but not customs, speaking of bugs or myths or the taste of wildflowers in my teeth, i tear with burning hands my own heart and wonder why i am so sad.   the elders, the unseeing, silly people with silly, angry hearts shout in the streets and squares seaspray in their blind eyes “ the blessed folk, the ...

 modern Enoch Emery   is out beyond the woods bare feet in the moonlight a return flight from sins of the father.   moon on tanned skin as he tears the old orange wear dirt under sharp fingernails and rain-smell in his nose as he digs deeper.   steps, slither to water’s edge blood off hands and teeth and clothes snatched from the old house he once loved.   the taste is sweet even as iron burns his tongue not the last if he can help it   vengeance, vengeance no longer seething in cunning thought – slipping into a new suit joy in that fox smile given key to the coop once again.

Back To Home: A Litany - based on an untrue story   There is an empty house, on a road lined with tidy – trimmed lawns. There is my cousin’s house next to it – not empty in persons but in spirit. And there are two charred walls where another house stood. And there, my cousin tells me, Is a ghost. And there, she tells me, Is a match in the ashes.   There is a car – mine – parked on this road, littered with dents and bruises. Its journey has been long, and constant, and Here is the first place I’ve stopped in a long time. There is hope that it won’t be the last. And there, I know, Is my own ghost, Inhuman but myself.   There are good people here, warm and welcoming. There are friendly smiles, and faces I have always known. There are old memories in rooms I am happy to revisit.   But   There is something wrong with this town. There are still secrets I haven’t found. And there are still dust-kissed, drafty corner...

 This other dream I’ve had before. I’m home alone, and I open the door And turn, only to find the house in flames.   The door is gone - no knob, no frame, But fire on the walls, from baseboards to seams. As I inspect my surroundings, I hear a faint scream. And stumble into smoke, searching for the source.   Every time, I take the same course.   I find myself in the study; all the books are now ash. I see my father, and a stranger - his gaze all aflash With golden-eyed anger, and my dad, he yells, “Leave!” “Maggie, save yourself! Please forget about me!”   That’s when I wake up, then I cry for a spell. And for the rest of the day, I feel rather unwell.

I just had a dream that was certainly true. I’m still scared, but I think I’ll describe it to you. It was raining outside - I think that’s the reason That I dreamed of swimming in such a cold season.   And the water was cold, the rain almost sleet - When (to my horror) I felt a hand brush my feet. Imagine my fear (I thought I was alone, But in the depths, I saw eyes staring into my own!)   I let out a shriek And rushed to the shore (The sky was even more bleak than it had been before) I fell on my back, laying amongst the trees, My fingers entwined with the dead grass and leaves.   I was still unsure of what I had seen - When the water itself began to glow green. A woman rose up, floating over jaded cool Discolored - like a doll left to rot in a pool.   Her dark curls lay flat, and blood dripped from her head She was without a doubt, unmistakably, dead. One hand, bluish and bruised, outstretched - then she spoke. “Ave...