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Tuesday, November 06, 2007

 

Name that Quote. Ten Points or More, I Swear it.

how nice to feel happy again.
this time cold fingers don't clench a fading heart.
there is heat in the smiles
of my rebellious compatriots.
they are young, strung and pretty.
and though i used to feel shitty,
it takes but a short time
to unburden my soul.
"torture comes and torture goes"
but what one must do is
outlive the woes,
and hold on to some glorious,
ephemeral,
shimmering
sliver of hope.
i know it can feel so pointless
to look towards the glowing dawn,
but we must.
and give our trust
to the ones who help us to
our feet
when the night is black
and we trip over our own tongues.
trading beers for tears,
songs for longing sighs.
so like i said,
it's cold out,
but there's a dr. pepper on the table,
and anna's reading fables,
and i'm feeling more than able
to carry on.

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Saturday, September 08, 2007

 
sinking into the sweet lavendar
of my mama’s purple pillow
it’s the best place in the house
to stare at the back of your eyelids
the soothing singing of the shower head
floats through the closed door next door
i know mama is inside preparing for
her favorite part of the day, almost time
to sleep,
to prepare her body and soul for the chore
of tomorrow’s striking resemblance
to today
my mother loves her bath time
“kill me kill me kill me kill me”
loud, tinkling voice bounces off the white tiles
it’s true that i can’t help but smile
“I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU I
LOVE YOU I HATE YOU”
it’s true, i always knew
the faucet turns, the water stops
i lift a heavy body from bed
steam rushes through the opening door
but just before my glasses fog
i glimpse the mirror, my own face flinching
in surprise, next to my mother’s,
warm and washed and well
i am her distorted echo,
broke up and kicking back same thoughts
“i’m goinna bed”
she gives herself to the sheets, the comfort
or the night
i flip the light

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Tuesday, September 04, 2007

 

"menstral moon charts" haiku series

menstral moon charts are
implications of distant
ovarian worlds
--
women still contain
the old world magic men lost
in simple machines
--
men cower under
their control over Nature's
deaths and orgasms

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Saturday, March 10, 2007

 

Hands so Little, Depression so Great

Rosasharn and Dewey Dell skippin’ down the lane
O’ those two’d skip to Timbuktu to undo all the pain
Of a blooming, pink baby’s veins in her veins
Of a cold, blue baby washed away by the rain.

Take me in the secret shade, take me in the truck
He took me for a pretty whore ripe to be plucked
And that was swell, but truth to tell-- I was fucked
Left me inside out, and -- out of luck, O’

You put your arms around me, but it wasn’t any good
Now, I’m naked in the wilderness beneath a red hood,
And I don’t need a man; I can chop my own wood,
But you could do so much for me if you just would


The buzzards are cawing, the men are squatin’
On their hams watchin’ hundreds of peaches go rotten
If it kills me, I’ll pick til the sack froths with cotton
Til it’s full like I was of one to be begotten.

One beautiful mornin’ the road unfurled,
Sticky, we were kissing in the heat like syrup.
One mornin’ he went missin’, my hair uncurled,
Wide-mouth frog, hair of the dog, I am a stupid girl

So unlike my tight-lipped mother,
Body thrown down now in the swollen river
This is hell, my belly swell, pop and burst all over
Hold my hand, momma, cause it hurts all over


Sweat glued my matronly thighs to the seat
Sweat stained my dress; too tight, it bound me
And God wouldn’t tell me what your name should be
Or why he gave us fruit if we’re not suppose to eat

Still, I’m clinging tightly to the ballad’s last lilt
Hold tight, hold tight, to the basket hilt,
Though I have been spat, sucked, and split.
I am full of guts. I am full of milk.

I tried to slam the door, but you stopped it with your foot,
And ran your dusty fingers down my cheek caked in soot,
And put your arms around me. But it wasn’t any good.
And you could do so much for me if you just would.




writ by Cadet Morgan Rose

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