Grandma’s ghost has taken up
knitting rattlesnakes in the drapes.
They hiss when someone lies.
Now, my mother only speaks
in noodle metaphors.
I ask her how she is, and she replies,
al dente, then goes back
to stirring the aquarium water
she'll later take a bath in.
My sister gives birth
to a daughter who levitates
during thunderstorms.
She answers to the name Unclaimed Bag.
In other words, we all gather once a year
to shed what’s left of politeness,
to laminate new rules:
No bleeding at the table.
Far less mirrors in the fruit salad.
All grudges must be gift-wrapped,
left at the door with the shoes,
with the husbands.
And when it’s over,
we nod like diplomats,
swap our favorite spells,
(that is to say recipes), pretend
we don't notice the fresh claw marks
on the floor.
It ends when we remember
our names again, who we are.
Then we leave—
each of us, in a different skin.
Dried roses fate
I flatten fit
Laminate it.
Picture of you
in my heart
Face of you
I don't part
In my heart
I write your name
In your heart
I call your name
Picture of you
I have so strong
Smile of you
I miss so long
In my heart
I sing and dance
All my heart
I skip no chance
Every time you come down
My heart beats up and down
Everytime you say "hello" or "hi"
My blood drifts so high
On a grassland we tripped
and hipped,
Rolling over like candlesticks
Down the mangrove we dropped
and dipped
Laughing over our broken lips
We see each other bleeding
Yet weary and giggling
Leaning on each other's back
Clinging to each other without a tack
Picture of you
I laminate
In my heart
I don't hesitate
Then you took my picture too
In your heart
You engrave so true
Too much peace and fun
In the atmosphere
The chaotic mind must create
A stir, a burst of energy
Aimed at the target
To laminate
...the problem
Forget about love
Nothing can penetrate
The heart of stone
This one wants no feeling
That might lead to the revealing
Of forever alone
...in eternity
TRUTH has been removed
In a room, waiting
For movement in part
Water runs freely
To restore the damage
Of the hollow heart
...drenched in perception
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-25-2022
on fibers coarse
with little clay
nibs are stained
with indigo ink
lines of cursive
carefully formed
seeking meaning
to come forth
chrome plated steel
and laminate wood
plastics cast
a cage formed
aligned in rows
of boys and girls
trying to find
what to know
classroom did form
a prison dark
locked out the sound
of the Muses song
warm air to flow
through wildflowers bright
bees there to hum
and birds take flight
castles to float
on scented breeze
grasses to tickle
bare running feet
through glass so hard
that kept at bay
what could be seen
but a world away
beyond the confines
of what was taught
forms that did constrict
the youthful mind
beauty unseen
did fill the thoughts
where wonder did dance
of what might be
blackboards of chalk
filled with empty words
to teach of things
that were not sought
with quills of ink
in cursive words
seeking the meaning
of the unknown
The wings blemish on the laminate panel.
The zany suit shudders at dainty muscle.
Sparkling splashes on abhorring emerge.
Brainless spirits shine over despot spurge.
Ill-mannered standards have been strengthened.
Wood chips were deployed to line neurally connected.
Despite laying the fault, she sparkles brilliantly.
Spitefulness, which to boot inclines daintily.
Extreme squalls will expect to be accused.
Humankind real pith has been frustrated.
Scorn and zeal linger at the core of tyranny.
Their pride makes the thin children hungry.
Tyrants grin as they savor their liquor.
Parroting raw decrees to the unhearing slicker.
Written: November 16, 2021
One of these depressed, depraved, morbid nights
I shall awake to the God damned game of life
And sit under the graying light
Of the foolish full moon
And laminate upon my luminance
And chew up the garments of past lives
And cry my soul
But no one will hear the plight of my mind
On strike for better wages
And more love
Thus, I will sit, and think and dream
Dreams that no one ever before dreamt
It is so very lonely being a foolish lunatic
But then as I drink to oblivion
I begin to think
Of all those things that I have not experienced
And wonder with a vengeance
Why God hates me so
Or is it only an illusion?
When will I awake
Or do we just sit waiting for more beer
To cover up
The stench of putrid rotting flesh
Waiting for death to take us away
To the Cosmic garbage dump in the sky
Trying to communicate across a gap
That is light years’ long
And will never close
For man was not made to know
The real thoughts of another
Man was made to suffer, cry and wait
For the party in Hell afterwards
, let’s us die and be done with it
Or live without our God damned dreams
Running our thoughts
Into pits of depraved madness
Outside, the wind blows
anxious, fidgety, restless howls,
on a journey, a pilgrimage escaping here
to cross the earthen sphere.
High above the tree tops
it glides, then swirls, coasting, stops,
rustling, rippling, resting,
with the branches wrestling.
It tugs and pulls at sleeves
tearing away the loosened leaves
to float and ease quickly down,
birds on wing, the fly, hovering above ground.
Within its path
it draws a chilled breath wrath
to fall and cool then observe as it slows
the sunlit world shivering below.
Strewn leaves blanket all,
the bush and brush plant shawls
then pile high and deep layered
an early snowfall designed by the creator
Musky scents waft then abate
along the earthen laminate
riding the breeze with ease
whispering aloud, slips away the breeze.
The Swan King.
Fine fibre lashes flicker, flutter.
Sailing trance-like on warm reflected glass,
Royal icing sculpture, still Lily-White feathers.
Ripples giggling, Dragon Flies dipping,
Sticklebacks cha-cha clumsily within own shadows.
as pulsing circles steady...peaceful.
Lilac Water-lilies whirl-curl open,
as perfumes whoosh! Midges hypnotic.
Verdant reeds stand stiff, honouring dawn’s yellow-zest ribbons,
as a frozen Butterfly poses for flight.
‘S’ curved, sparkling neck, full-stop onyx pupils,
he glance-glares at a Mallard trio...
olive flecked necks scuba dive in shell-pink wellies,
then line-dance...
’One-two, one web forward,
two-three, one web back.
four-five shake booty!’
Rainbow Trout ker-plop leap in this shrine-still lake,
mountains laminate into silver firewater.
As a billion tiny stars come together enhancing wizard–white plumage
the Swan Queen follows his webbed tracks.
Wisps of twirling mist creep in gentle hush,
lovers serenely drift beneath skies of solar-blue,
on bluish-wine water, saturated in Heaven–leaking light,
a fading fairytale vanishes into Moonlight’s magical veiled silk voile.
A flea in a bag is not akin to a farmers market on a window sill but wide angled mirrors breathe many a basket bomb into a woven template if a footstool. Perching by a bathroom crevasse one ponders the many insecurities of a passing flying snail. For to shell is not to show. And shelter is decorated in a mindfully placed swirl. Bracket not a bucket. And brake no gear. It is an impossible wonder of a mile long coin that enters the golden highway at a junction aforementioned in a style magazine. Oh fabulous the floors will be nice and clean today for the mops are arriving in great multitude on many landing strips of lino,carpet, and laminate flooring too. A pretty cat sighs. For intrusive interrupted snoozing is not pleasant for a snoring meow. But mowing an eleven acre lawn is best performed with a five centimetre pair of scissors. Hahahahah silvery shrouds seeking secrecy hahahahaha moon painted boil xxxxx fastidiousness Z
Laminate
Plastic covered up definitions lip with profound mastic.
Layered lamella formed single filed lines separating life from death;
Held onto by paper thin adhesions.
Besides bungling up a perfectly fine bollix,
Laminate single handedly took arms up touching innocency.
Scrolls of past things are looked less upon;
By inclinations vestal eye, seen glimpsing beyond chaste.
Blind alley virtual figment reality innocuously engulfed—
Suppressed complimentary service accepts multiplied donators;
Final offers pickled debacle is utter intrinsic debasement.
One lamination, under God, with liberty and justice; For all…
| Laminate | IrOniC ZiNc 12-13-15 12:59am (ct)
Love notes posted on laminate
Revisiting thoughts persistent
Staring at head-lights
Driving through starry nights
Stuck in motion
Longing for some kind of devotion
Sinking memories flood over me
Like a deluge of forbidden fantasies
Rampant voices of love & romance visit me
Like a long lost lover
Rummaging through boxes
Of old love letters and yellowed photographs
Telegraphing feelings I can't explain
Maybe I've been numb for far too long
Maybe I forgot what it means to give myself away.
Oh sweet, sweet anonymity
Through the pressing crowds you’re calling me
Along the streets in city parks
Your presence waits by day or dark.
Just as the judge is passing law
As in so many times before
On parking offence or minor crime
On occasion a case that makes a national headline
The same hand takes the tea maid’s cup
Or swings a club on the Sunday golf match
As famous singers walk the stage
Of what matter is its matter made?
Plywood sheet or glass laminate
The "greatest moments" are a blip
On lifetimes stage where fortune sits
As greater life is lived unsung
Of no recorded note or age
A bar to life’s great tearing pace.
Yes,, somewhere waits for you and me
That sweet sweet anonymity.
A girl with hair like golden down
Is smiling in a country town
Her eyes are soft, her spirit strong
She knows truth, love and easy songs.
She makes up a house where people meet
And lives are crossed so bitter sweet
From kindergarten to university
She sees continuity
And containment of the life she loves
White picket fence and a cote of turtle doves.
© Joe Maverick 26-07-2010
I dream that tonight I am a raccoon
And it is here in this body that I store the notion
That my sadness will last forever,
In the treasury of unclaimed awareness,
Where pits of the peaches could never re-sprout...
I dig deep into the indent of a Denver ravine,
Gnaw knee-high into the hollow ridges of hominids and their homelands,
Belly-wade in bottomless mud waters west of wherever they don’t go, though
Lurid in my languor now, I laminate my slick turf onto Continental limestone slabs
And, then, all-at-once, at noon, just like that,
I call it a day.
A tired little raccoon
Can’t bear without a rest
Through the midday...
I arise as the coon falls under.
Reclaiming Human Sorrow, my Wrong-Headed Brother,
Waxing thunderously, now, in the mind’s cluttered cage
In this day of coffee and chit-chat and left-turns,
I’ll dream tonight I am a raccoon.
So that we may both get out and roam.
after tea.
head for bed.
ok, no kitchen lights this time.
to the side comes a doorway.
a silhouette draws up in the moonlit curtains
like a Himalayan spine.
patient monster.
no negotiating.
glimpse of ghost skin.
it lurches
rotten avocado with boar bristles.
and then only the heating panel, the dryer, the bathroom door.
and you feel for the hall light.
turn it on.
feel a pathos churning.
near your bed.
cross to the left past the window.
mouselike scratching on the laminate, past the window, behind red curtains
a lump of face like a turkey stuffed in pantyhose,
half-lit, in your room.
clothing black snakeskin on tofu underbelly.
mind your gun.
head to the side of the bed to get the gun.
remember that you have no bullets.
you just never got around to it.
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