Archive for June, 2009|Monthly archive page

Cloaked

The witch’s cloak hides tools of chaos behind the black silk; anything can fit between the skin and the fabric, for magic lines the thread. The biggest problem for a witch is which item to use next; they could sail through air with a broom or stir a stew with the other end. Their hearts do the work.

Slaves

As clocks spin, piles of green rise higher; no lawnmower comes to chew through money. The hungry stare and wish more and more would line their pockets, so prices expand to make up for lust. Outsourcing ends local jobs and enslaves those elsewhere; corporations mold into wallet-dictators, swallowing pennies like breaths of air. None will be enough.

Heels

One false step and shoes drip, muddy; blind, except to the woman beside, he takes a slip into a puddle. The bold splash bounces like blue rain with a tint of dirt. Competing thoughts trouble his decision-making skills. He lays down and lets the woman walk over top. Her heels leave two light marks on his stomach.

Overpopulation

Scientists switch weather patterns with mechanical toys used to play god. They send death where they feel has overpopulated; hurricanes, tornados, typhoons, and maelstroms come at the press of a button. If one ever wonders why the weather channel can’t ever seem to get the future correct, they should look to the skies and look through the clouds.

Outlines

The chalk marked body twisted against the sidewalk square with fingernails pressed inside the neck; her face shined a mysterious shock like that of a child discovering the truth about Santa Claus. Flags were lowered, spirits were dropped with hope. The world lost the venerate shine it once had in its eyes. Habitual smiles inverted with cruel symmetry.

Weapons

The dust breathes freely until the artist picks up his or her weapon again; heart’s splatters from the past look more like strangers waiting to be seen. Secrets laugh at their ignorant makers, watching them from behind one-sided mirrors. The aroma of nostalgia grasps the mind like mother’s pies; soon, more time drifts away under contemplative thought.

Fold

Fickle minds switch with the weather; sparkling stars circle suns as new worlds to discover. There’s a wrinkle in the sky; even it is not sure which reality to perceive and acts as a gateway to another taste of air. Fly through the fold; meet your god eye to eye and ask him where love drifted ages ago.

Flesh

Machines tore through Mother’s flesh to see what waited underneath. Her green hair died away and left a dirty brown. She never said a word no matter what her children did to her. She just watched over and slowly drifted into the underworld one inch at a time. Ignorant minds do not understand their need for her presence.

Ceiling

Some offers burn away like dynamite sticks, exploding when truth is known. The smiles of used car salesmen widen in belief of an easy target. They slip promises like goodbyes, mechanical and without meaning. The money beneath their pillows calm each one enough to sleep at night, though they wish fortunes would rise high enough to hit ceilings.

Conforming

Some minds can’t assimilate as well as others; those brains’ stomachs do not growl for more food. To add any more would be to overfill the cup and send a flood over the sides. Damage would be overwhelming: homeowners might drown; wildlife would tilt over, drunk. Radicals would not conform with corsets to seem as thin as others.