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megrimshe walked through rocky puddles
around the climbing quicksand
to pick from the crab-apple tree
with her headache umbrella.
earthworms wriggled restlessly
under her Mary Janes
the muddy grass was deep
the bells rang
but she was skipping church
she couldn't risk
god spotting her
just the thought made her stomach lurch.
so two Our Fathers and a Hail Mary
would have to suffice.
she wasn't in the mood for sacrifice.
she walked by the curly poodles
running about, all helical,
unusual behaviour for the little devils.
and then, much to her surprise,
she perplexedly, blatantly realized
their owners were nowhere in sight.
and try with all her might,
she just could not stop thinking
how cold Thomas's hands felt
just the other night.
murky bubbles float too slow to the top
roller coaster breaks down right before the drop
the jailhouse songs have stopped
because everyone's been in the chair.
baby blue skies
clouds spread too thinly over the breadth
the flower shop's open but the doors are locked
we turn the trees upsidedown to mop
because everyone's bored of breathing the air.
and too busy to care
and too full to feed
and too dead to want
and too smart to need
and too proud to bleed
teethingits Brianna's birthday party
and I wore my orange dress
the mom at the store called it citrus orange
so my mom bought it
and I wore it today.
I wanted to wear my blue snow pants
but mom says their too bulky
for the games we will play
at the party
the flamingos are here
in their perfect party hats
and Brianna's mom is letting us play with the bats.
my mom says they have bugs
but Brianna says no
and her mom says no
so I guess its so.
there's a table by the chess board
and there's lots of presents
when she saw it, my mom said Brainna is spoiled by her parents.
a flamingo is curtsying me
and im not sure if I am supposed to agree
or bow back at some degree
but my orange dress is citrus
and my daddy's second mistress said I look like a princess
the invitation said there would be a surprise
and Brianna's mom is telling us to cover our eyes.
and then I can hear the flamingos peel off their disguise.
they brought big guns and shot everyone.
and then it was quiet for a lit
qualopiluitHis nose was running and his lips were cracked
He brought the dogs to an abrupt stop
And he unloaded his sack from off of his back.
"Sleep boys" he called, and he looked
To the woods with a sigh,
But the white silence is dissected by crystals
Falling from the sky.
He tied on his snowshoes
And pulled up his hood
He trudged on to the forest
To gather some wood.
He came to a river and felt a bad chill
He needed to get warm or he would fall ill.
With a handful of twigs and sticks and bark
He turned to return to his sleigh in the dark,
But a noise unfamiliar echoed down from far off
Sounding a bit like a small child's dry cough.
He walked hesitantly backwards to follow the sound
Then came a rap tap tapping from under the ground,
He came to the river, curious and enticed;
A bloated family of four lie under the ice.
He dropped his twigs and sticks and bark
And ran to his sleigh at mercy of the dark.
He mounted the runner and cried out like a gun
For the dogs to Mush! and they started to run.
this placeThe Countess is missing
She's gone from her bed.
The sheets are all twisted
Loops and scoops and dips and rips.
Her nightgown rests there on a chair
But her veil must be in her hair,
For the bed post is bare
And the Countess usually keeps it there.
Outside the big wooden doors
The coachman is sure
He sees footprints of lady feet upon the swampy floor.
A team of knights
March on through the night
In search of dear Jezebel
And something familiar steals the rivet of their sight.
They lift it with ease from the mud and the shale
Recognizing it at once as the lady's black veil.
The men regained hope
But worry took shape,
Why would she drop her delicate cape?
And why in the first place did she leave the gates?
For she knows of the beasts in the wild in this place.
After much agitation
And some sad aggravation
They came upon a quiet lagoon.
The dark embraced the damp
And the soldiers brought no lamp
But could see by the modest light of the moon
A dull lucent shape wit
Mademoiselle Le BlancOne late summer evening
Shepherds tended to their sheep
All was well with the commonfolk
Until the muddy streets carried a mother's weep.
Babes bit into breasts
And children woke from their rest
All running out to see
That the devil had come to Songi.
She wore dirt like a skin
With a club in her hand,
A scowl on her face
Paired with eyes that demand.
They sent seven bloodhounds
Wearing thick, iron collars
To rip at her throat;
None returned and none caught her.
Monsieur La Condamine heard
and saw her.
He thought he could tame her,
Make her a daughter.
So Godin the servant bought her,
And La Condamine's maids they wrought her,
Reformed her into a respectable girl
So they could show her off to the hungry world,
Just waiting to devour her wild eyes and curls.
They shined her up like a shoe:
Proud as a peacock
Soft as a pearl.
Little did they know,
Beyond as far as they could tell,
They were killing the little Mademoiselle.
In less than a week
She was flat on her back.
Having never be
spring cleaninghe came
and told us to be good.
some said he was the son of god.
we killed him
he fell to hell and ploughed the lost souls
and forgave us and
set us free.
then said goodbye and rose to the sky
leaving us quite alone
with our guns and frowns
till hell is full again.
Jesus is just god's maid.
its been 2005 years.
he's a bit of a slacker.
I wouldnt hire him
for my spring cleaning.
masslots of black in their clothes
over-coats buttoned almost as high as their nose
lips shut almost as tight as their pantyhose.
they may look humble in their long skirts
but they are sitting next to serial killers in their Sunday shirts.
so much for sweeping the dirt
under the rug.
the priest mumbles holy words from the holy book
from which the tongue of man twisted and mistook.
we shake the trees from which we feed
and pray and wish and take and need
a better answer than 'just believe'
so the bishops weave ill-conceived rules
that act as tools
to ensure our passport into heaven
there is no right way to play the game of life.
here's the bread, pass the knife.
and they sit on their pews
looking at the world through the stained glass eyes of saints who never smile.
god gave us free will, but Roman Catholics
assertively pass the baskets
and tell us to pay God's bills.
'stop kicking your sister
keep your eyes on the man in red and gold!
you will burn it hot hot hell
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