Fox In The Kittens

Fox In The Kittens

You're a kite in the crows

a fox in the kittens

the dagger-light thrown

where the poisoned word's written.

I hear your screech by the dolmen

catch your stench in the doorway;

your copper cup's full when

the blood hits the causeway.

Astraea is chained

with a gold liar's lasers

while money's papier-mâché'd

into goblins with tasers;

my gift to you

is a kiss from the razor

to turn your eyes blind

to return all your favors

so the sun rises mild

so dawn saves the child.

~June 2018

I am bitter, furious and heartbroken over the evil being done on our southern border. May all of us stand up for the light, for basic human rights, and stop this vile immoral 'policy' which is nothing more than a cynical political calculus at the expense of helpless boys, girls, parents and infants.  Babies in arms, some, ripped from their mothers and put into cages-- detention centers, internment camps, bureaucratic hells on earth, for the crime of doing as every single one of our own ancestors did, coming here for a better life. There are no words.

Friday 55 June 15 2018

Another midpoint in another month brings us once again to the 55, that meme originated by the one and only Galen Hayes in what has to be called the dim recesses of blog history, when so much was so different...except the rules, which remain the same: link your 55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less, in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.

My scrabbled together 55 this week:

Smell Of A Storm

You wear again

the smell of a storm,

fumes of a dream.

Your shadow stands in smoke,

gaming the dying sun to

light your cobra eyes.

I reach out

now as I did then

before summer nights

gave their souls to snow;

 this flash and bang

this show 

is all of you I'll ever know

~June 2018

Note, still having internet issues--bear with me if I take forever to get to your link. I am leaving comment moderation off so you can still read each other's if I am MIA.

Friday 55 June 8 2018

Welcome to the Friday word emporium, 55ers. Here we try to put aside the conventions of the blogosphere and look to our own craft, in a place I like to think of as a comfortable room full of non-judgemental kindred spirits, an atmosphere I always felt when this meme was overseen by its generous originator, Galen Hayes. The rules remain the same, no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more, no less, prose, poetry, satire, lyric, narrative lament...whatever you can wrap your pen around.

Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.

Without further ado, let's start the 55 rolling:

Resonance

Sampling

the aquifer of her 

semi-conductive sorrows

my clone begins

to hate me.

Who 

could blame her

blistered

with alien faults,

given not life

but a monotone's bastard

resonance,

no cry, no song's sigh

to cipher our carrion end.

The soul she cannot twin

fears her. Eternity shines 

liquid before me;

forever she's held

homeless.

 ~June 2018

Images: Polar Light, 1926, ©Rene Magritte   Fair Use

Title unknown, ©Dmitry Brodetsky, via internet. Fair Use.

Clocking Out

Clocking Out

2:07 pm in the 1932

over the flattest bridge

in the arrondissement, flyblown

with grey men in black hats,

where I hadn't been born

just to die but

many

many who had

were getting ready

after a glass of Pernod, of absinthe,

after another gasper.

I punched in

for the

salvage, for the

love-making bedded

in mustard-gas linen

with souls of dead boys precison-worked

behind lively eyes, 

(mais pas les généraux, 

or insects in black hats.) My

sequins bright as

the flash

of rat's eyes in trenches,
feathers to fly
my velvet cloche helm v.
the midnight sword wind
off the Somme, the sweep,
the stench. It
was only a dance
beneath the clock
of statues, of bones, a few seconds
excused
from hundred-year plagues

sent by that god who gives nothing
a  defense--jamais de la vie!--
not even the bee

except for
the sting that kills it.

~June 2018

for Kerry's camera

Another one without much editing--thanks to Kerry for the photographic nudge.



Image: Clock of the Académie Française, Paris
Andre Kertesz (1932)

Friday 55 June 1 2018

Welcome dear 55ers to another month and another Flash Fiction Friday, which almost didn't happen as I have had recurring connectivity issues in my antiquated DSL. If I am mysteriously absent, it will be due to circumstances beyond my control.

This meme is dedicated to its originator Galen Hayes, remembered with respect and affection for his ability to see the dark laughter under the surface of this life.The blogosphere has changed dramatically since his heyday just a few short years ago, but this meme hasn't--it's still no rules except 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less.


So, enough introduction--link your 55 in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and let's kick this weekend's ass.

My 55 :

Losing My Grip

Each week the days are

a mangled non-sequitur, a hand's

fingers frankenstein-pieceworked:

Monday a fat woman's thumb

barely able to oppose,

Tuesday's delicate index
blush-nail-manicured,
astonished by work,

Wednesday
my own
upthrust twig,

Thursday's scarab-claw digit

a pharoanic relict,

Friday a child's pudgy pinkie
short as summer.

How can this hand

grasp
 anything
at all?

~May 2018

And because I am tired of unadulterated gloom, some Frankenfurterian musical accompaniment:

Images: Illustration © Eko, in The New Republic 

Still,  from Frankenstein (silent movie) 1910    Fair Use