Search

Cackles.From.A.Mad.Duck

'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.

Language

Image result for hand touching lips

In words I can no longer repeat, she had said to me,
“Your hands are so rough to hold.” and proceeded to laugh,
So I didn’t take it too hard.
Did she say she liked it in fact? Or commented that it was rather
Odd; I can’t recall, hardly telling apart
This language folded into my memory, since then
Translated by lane-way dreams into another tongue, foreign escapism that bespoke
A single feeling, fleeting now

 

20/33

Marina

What is it that you see in older men
The quench of insatiable want, I find
For wanting the better half of a wise conscience
Better known for to humor you, my love
Redefine yourself through the security, between encased struggle
Drawn from the richness of their rudimentary reserves you’re to measure by
Burgeoning rouse towards your mature peak appearing small
You can’t help it, dearest, to not rush past
The comfort in your young
Supple
Skin,
Swollen with compliments
To your smart pride, considering the swift current hidden behind
Cherub cheeks, the often unseen attribute given hindsight
Hopeless bandwidth of one’s age urging reach at most, to
Know what you only don’t know, granted enough wit to seek settlement
In kind,
Not yet enough to precede the draws of the earth, still
Too much so to be still
And we haven’t been made still at all

Emotions

rain

She could hear the outcome of this dialogue
All the while she began the summary of her emotional inventory
How in fact she’s been feeling off, yet today without authority
Nothing to justify save for the simple pawn off
Against the pellet of rain who’s deliberately thrown themselves
Into the pool of their lost doppelgängers
Rather that she said, “I’ve been feeling moody today and I
Can’t figure out why.”
“Why figure it out?” The voice asks,
“So that I can assess and come to terms with
The reason why and not feel this way anymore.”
“Why is it not okay for you to feel low,” her own conscience now speaks
Separately, seeking her to consider, “what if the disturbance is to be okay
With this emotional baggage instead?

Expression 1

expression

Staring at her nails painted the color of steel
Like bullets on end, that has on occasion severed her better conscience
Despite her best efforts, against him
She says, “sometimes I want a write off, I was so young
Surely it was a disturbing love, but I can only determine
love nonetheless.”
But he never says anything back, thoughts flashing verbatim, drumming
The sounds of war that she had painted on, the color of proud obsidian glean
Instead, unworn by time, the grayed sentiments satin stained,
“But I can’t forgive you, you were my first love and
You broke my heart.”

 

Celebrity

monroe

She was all kinds of intelligent, I’m sure
At least, being in public eye wasn’t easy
After all, somehow all that remains of her is an obscure quote
I had already forgotten where I’d read about
Her titular style, enough to garner all sorts of
Questionable wrath, to them she replied,
“Whenever someone comments, it makes me think ‘I want to pull it tighter, make it higher;
It feels like falling in love each time I look in the mirror.’ ”
And maybe it was due to the false advertisement of her life, or even the lack thereof
Of my own questionable reconnaissance
I could never quite decide where on the spectrum that statement landed
Albeit crass or bold, for if I were a man in life
Would I have no doubt, doubly fallen in love with her

 

A Classical

What drew me first of course, was the design
Tattooed on his temple, following the numerous imprinted jewels
He set as stone into his face
Punctuated by the girth of his rings, I had thought, “those must pack a punch.”
And even entertained to comment had he not been
Otherwise muted by his headphones
For no other reason then this tangible compulsion I felt
To ask instead, “May I listen to your headphones?”
Hoping you would not decline,
You ask why?
“On the off chance that you’re listening to classical, I might have judged you wrongly.”
Gamely thing to say, I applauded myself with the swell of wit
Diminishing as your retrieving figure stood at the corner
Of the intersection while I crossed the road
Out of the corner of my eye I saw as the bus rode past
You embracing another dark figure
Go figure, I thought, “that’s a classic.”
I finally said aloud

Bus Stop Boy #2

Sunken he was in his seat
Solemn eyes that shouldn’t be
The deaden fluorescent light
Lit against the backdrop of
Teenage infinity, I could see it
Besides the railroad tracks they ran
It begs the question of
Whether the foreign soul atrophies when weary youth fouls
The expired physical, costing
Stupid, gentle pride, now instead gently folded
Onto the absence below his left knee
Quiet disparity telling
In his ginger grasp on the bus stop
Upon his severe cheeks inlay
Early retirement undue,
If only the train had roared louder

This Is My Wife

reflect.jpg

At first her voice drifted to me, somewhere from around the bend of the old cabinet
While I picked my way into another dead end of our derelict furniture store
“No, I know exactly what I gave him, I have a list. They were all high end furniture while I had them.”
It’s a slow prickling of a feeling I felt, this obstinate presence has been a slow process
Before you saw her go,
“my purse was placed on the table, she’s just being stupid.”
There she was, the love of my life for the past 40 years looking afar into the distance
Sitting atop another stressed dining chair that has since lost its ensemble
Perhaps forgetting its origin and name,
Where she’s been this whole time
It seems she has forgotten while I stood guard over her,
She rambles
Not to me, but directed at an audience she has since acquainted at the corner of the ceiling
So beside her I stand when you passed by to stare;
This is my wife.

 

Dreamscape Therapy

dreamscape-therapy

“You don’t understand the gravity inside a dream
Your subconscious would think it is like Peter Pan – just believe
And yet you don’t fly on sole belief…it is something else that makes you run away.”
“What were you running from?”
“This school…that was wrought with the self righteous echelon that exists in life.
I was granted to fly on a  carpet, and I was laying upside down atop it when I came through the principal’s office
And as if their mere presence did it, I felt my backside against the rooftop shingles.”
“Did they stop you from flying?”
“They did.”
“How do you think they did that?”
“I remember the vice principal woman said, ‘—– You can’t do that, honey, you’re falling.’ and there I was, sliding off the roof top.”
“What happened then?”
“I ran out into the street trying to pump belief of flight but it wasn’t taking, so I ran between cars and side streets to avoid them catching me.”
“What do you think would happen if they caught you?”
“They’d drag me back into the school.”
“Is that really so bad?”
“Yes, it’s where dreams die.”

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

TheFeatheredSleep

Tigers not daughters

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction

Bespoke Traveler

Immersive Tales for the Curious Traveler

bluebird of bitterness

The opinions expressed are those of the author. You go get your own opinions.

Ned's Blog

Humor at the Speed of Life

Bad Cat Chris

The Baddest Cat You'll Ever Love

comeagainblog

The life of a waitress…in all its glory.