There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.
Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.
I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!
You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her
brittle cold – buried deep as snow…
You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior
My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.
I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.
Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.
There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.
Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down
my innocent beliefs…
I think I’ve had enough
gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.
You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
kicking hard against my reasons.
Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.
Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.
Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:
graffiti on the train …
Hello, world, and happy new year.
Creative Commons: Ninha Morandini
I can’t guarantee I’ll get more posts out this year but I can start with a bang. I last co-edited Playground of Lost Toys with Ursula Pflug. The anthology was nominated for an Aurora Award, as well as one author being nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award, and three longlisted for the Sunburst Award with Catharine MacLeod’s Hide and Seek winning in short fiction. Now, to hopefully repeat that sucess, I will be editing an anthology of speculative fiction, due to be published by Exile Editions in the spring of 2018. Read on for Alice Unbound guidelines.
Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson) explored childlike wonder and the bewildering realm of adult rules and status, which clashed in bizarre ways. Many characters in his tales are anthropomorphic, whether talking cards, crying mock turtles or saucy Tiger Lilies. Over 150 years later, people…
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Plateaus of splashed frenzied poppies
uprooted about your knees.
Rampant delusions dramatic of colour
hard faced delirium, breeds termite high uprisings.
Daddies perfect soldier – Mummies screwed up little boy.
Caught between the battle fields whilst still playing
with your toys.
Strung out whitened daisies –
Sunday’s fervent sabbatical.
Bayonet yourself a Sunday roast.
Give toast to all mankind.
Basement hate spread Belsen thick
Enfield to the head – pull the trigger
young man your dead…
Poppy ~xx~ January 2013
I always imagined her
longed neck –
high and low.
Caught on the horizons sidelines
searching for that safe place to go.
How well she finally
homed that landing
with her salt-laden, sunshine smile.
of her mouth angled at ease, a tributary
of waters now long ago laid so wasteful at rest.
That once, straight backed shape –
now eel-like, curved in composure
fragile in this, her new found
sanctuary of endings.
Of all her reasons, left unadorned
in the nothingness of such a lonely
25th January 2014
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The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
breaking limbs of woe:
Left now for wasted all –
dying in the unkind cold…
Poppy Jan 2017~xx~
She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.
Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.
She daubed splendour – in full
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.
She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:
looking for her creator.