Racing their Flags to the Ocean

Zap dang crock and then the pages fall off
for what is the true blue egg of the dragon going to do
when all around is full of mud not even worth listening to?
I don’t think it at all, it just happens.
You know what the outburst from friends in the city
said racing their flags to the ocean>
I do belong here
Embrace me and take me to London
To home
We’re always so everywhere
Are we not Frankensteins watching the outbursts
The whales with the dolphins
The funnels with the water
We’re a meaning to make it all better
The logic to make it all clearer.
Not clearer, it’s not.
It’s forgotten.
So tell me
Why
Trying is brokenness.
Really and
It’s not even noon.
Calm down if it’s all about all your potential.
But if you want change
just let calm take control

No, that I guess doesn’t sound right.
You can be control,
So then don’t let them have it.
But no one’s control
You know
and then you have the answer.
I guess, but then who really knows.
Broken eggs won’t become mulch
If delicious.
No, that isn’t true.
You can’t know.

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Distant Figures

Ever more, your eyes are like
stones. Ripples have left in

the shadow of our lost
conversation. Moving

through open meadow,
clouds make darkened

spectral shapes. The story
of Sisyphus is formed –

mists carrying weights
they could have lost

long ago, if they’d been
honest with the world.

Perhaps rain will fall,
and new forms be made;

soon, mountainous
storms, obvious to all

who look, or feel weightless
pressure in the air.

 

Image: The painting “Sisyphus” by Kolesnikov Sergey, taken from http://www.russianpaintings.net/artists/artist_kolesnikov_sergey_246953/sisyphus_250500/

Flowering Abyss

You are a flowering abyss:
everyday you grow more beautiful
and more empty.
Like a storm in its eye,
sublime in its power,
becomes so suddenly
silent, in one place,
as the billowing winds
and capsizing waves
rage around it.

You are so much more
than I can say,
than I can see.
To me you are just a collection:
of what is reflected and triggered in my memories.

Girls for Satan – Malicia Frost

Girls for Satan, by Malicia Frost

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

My best friend used to whisper:
“Let us lay down our lives tonight
here, at the offering table
let us tie our mouths shut
and tape tongues to our legs!
We’ll never be pure again!”

It was funny, back then
when we were a bunch of chuckling preteens
and would sneak into the bathroom together,
pull out our pocket demons
and dance around the sink as if it was a naked calf.

People say girlhood is full of glitter and carnage
we would collect the heads of boys who over-talked us
and we would let the blood water our throats,
nourish our budding lust for revenge.

I kissed my friend’s naked areola
under the blankets in my bed
while we were hiding from our parents
we chewed bubblegum and performed blood offerings monthly
we cried in the shower at night
and sang for the devil watching us in the the…

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