Elizabeth Bathory Wakka
Was awfully good in the sacka
She'd jump on your face
And writhe with such grace
Then spit out her bright red tobakka.
So sweet, a double-crossed tongue.
The moment we taste its flavor,
We lose our minds completely.
And out is born
A brand new creature.
So foul, a double-crossed tongue.
The moment we spit out its taste,
We come back to our senses.
And out is born
A filthy creature.
"And lo, that very creature of mold is you!"
I am right here with you,
What on earth are you talking about?
"Why aren't you buying me dinner?"
I never dreamed
There would be a poisoned dart
In the meal you bought me in the past.
You seem to be guiding me.
As if you are watering
A sprouting, budding shoot—
Yet the moment I turn my back,
You fling another poisoned dart.
A season changes.
Once again, you buy me a meal.
Sweet words,
A sweet smile.
'Right, surely not. I must have been oversensitive!'
Feeling good, I speak up!
I bought a Porsche.
Instead of a poisoned dart,
You spit out poisoned words.
"Did you rent that car?"
I was right.
Sucker punched anyway.
They say that those turning right go first every time.
But like wasps-
Anger leads direction.
I feel pungent as spinach that gets spit out.
Yeah, I was right about this and that.
And other stuff that beats me up inside because I could ramble on and keep being correct forever.
The right of way in this world.
Means that I should turn right now and again.
I was right as a ragged breath in a runner.
I was right as a caterpillar’s cocoon getting so tough.
I was right.
And it feels like a participation trophy anyway.
In half.
I left therapy with chewed up gum in my mouth, tastes like my own brain goop.
I took my luggage which was really the “not sorry,” in that room.
Jump started.
Brushing my teeth with that therapy gunk.
It tastes like the crust of what a bug spit out.
Those busted up words and tears.
In half.
And both halves are as alive as the inside of a planet lightyears away.
I left therapy and my jaw started tasting good as carrion-gum.
I left therapy.
With an alive secret.
I heard a voice,
a static laugh, playing on a cassette tape
A muffled cry, looped into a comedy show.
Buzzing, ringing, echoing...
It keeps repeating—
Piercing through to bone,
Gripping my chest as if
My fingers might crush it—
Opening my mouth to
Spit out my heart.
A vast cage called home,
A bleak stage called family...
"Can’t this relationship go beyond rights and duties?"
No matter how desperate,
Or how much I beg—
There is no return,
Neither safe escape
Nor a crossroads...
Acceptance would never come.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was born of trembling stone,
cold and sharp, unnamed, alone~
then the rains came, soft and slow,
whispering, You must flow.
I carved my path with silver teeth,
gnawed the earth beneath my feet,
sang the songs the rocks had taught me,
wore the valleys down to naught.
Men arrived with nets and prayers,
called me holy, called me theirs,
built their temples near my back~
I drowned them when I chose to crack.
Now I am old, but not yet tired,
my body wide, my voice entire.
I swallow sunsets, spit out stars,
while the moon strokes my scars.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The neon hums like a dying wasp~
flickers Roy Orbison in wounded pink,
while the gulf wind tongues
the screen door’s loose hinge.
A quarter rolls from my palm,
kisses the chrome throat
of a machine that remembers
Patsy Cline, but not my name.
Some nights, the bartender lets it play
the same cracked track~
Crazy—on loop till dawn,
while shrimp boats cough diesel
into the salt-thick dark.
I press B-17. The gears grind,
spit out a melody warped
by hurricane sweat,
by the weight of all the songs
it swallowed and never digested.
When the power fails,
the jukebox still glows~
a ghost lit by its own stubborn heat,
singing to the empty stools,
to the tide’s slow retreat.
My grief is a coffee
That scalds
And sears my mouth
And is too hot to spit out
Yet will blister if I swallow.
Stars illuminate day’s memories.
Tangerine thoughts are consumed
by the midnight moon.
Loves, losses, pain, exuberance.
All is digested.
Nourishing memories billow
heart’s pocket
as turquoise toxins are spit out
at sunrise
…and birds resume singing.
Groundhog, come out to play.
Spit out what you have to say.
Is spring coming our way?
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2026
I bite my cheeks until I bleed
I think of you when I spit out the blood
Out of all the things you never gave me
The worst one was love
The bad taste screams your name
But it’s a craving I can’t shake
So, I bite and bleed and bite and bleed
And find relief in the ache
I do anything to feel your presence
Something that was never good for me
I beg you to stay away
But wonder if you’re lingering
My mind has never been empty
It’s such a cluttered space
No vacant rooms or exit signs
Just a frantic search for you in every place
I once agreed at the arrival of woke.'
I was relieved ( it had caught me up )
I was out in front for so long and had almost
Had lost hope.' But this conscious only
Lasted for a while.' Two decades passed
And i found all there had gone wild.! The
Idea-ology was morphing, yet had no growth.? There were calls to free cabbages
From soil druggery.' thats just my joke.)
Yet the greens.? Were now rampant we
see.' To think i
Advised? someone to become one of
them'
He achieved couincil status..I don't wish
to think! Look at this pile..Nothing it
seems can balance at all.' Humans being humans and
Power the thrall..It draws them; awes
them, and chews them up.'
To spit out a
Parody..Yet its still lapped up.? The joke is
Now flowing like sour milk, Clowns
just love it and there are many of that ilk.' The
Joke is upon us. All owerblown.' Dark and
Dismal upon such a plastic throne.)
Hyper.
The start of tail ends.
Like floral patterns at the end of the light.
Hyper.
Takes me to the dark, blank staring competition with an immortal being.
And effortless drags me through.
Like a skidmark being burned away.
But lives another life like a bursting lightbulb.
Hyper.
I was hyper one Tuesday.
As much as that imaginary skeleton, brittle, undone.
Spilled coffee as if it was on purpose as cutting wrapping paper.
Hyper.
The start of tail ends.
I ate the last of the floral patterns.
Everything is as three dimensional as that staring contest with a skeleton.
I turned hyper one day.
Turned into a spit out T-shirt with chew marks.
Tuesday.
Inertia burns like spinach gunk.
Sludge and the things we like.
Everything is spit out horribly.
Like spitting out pie at Thanksgiving on the table.
Inertia waves its way through,
Tunnels that we made for ourselves.
Inertia should be stillness.
But that’s not nothing at all.
What we think is stillness is actually a grain of rice that came to life.
Angry.
Hits like roller skates came loose.
Baited like a wooden statue made of dog treats.
Empty like someone who counts the flecks of gold that don’t exist.
Inertia burns like spinach gunk.
I wish I was more than a rotten apple chunk.
Useless like sandpaper strips in the ocean.
Or a ruler in a pig pen.
I have enough money to count on today.
And no energy to spend anyway.
So maybe I’ll be rotten on an imaginary throne.
When really, I just want pizza alone.
But that pizza guy doesn’t want to see me anymore.
And the toxic smell is making me sore.
Inertia.
One of those things that allows me to sleep all day.
But doing so boldly and kindly.
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