For Only Me

 

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Every day it does reign, a

perpetual decrescendo—

melancholic melody made for only

me.

 

Deluge of disquiet

comprises choral pessimists

repeating in my head.

Depressionist

percussionist

beats heart that’s damn near dead.

Dirges designed for only

me.

 

But!

Though it does reign—my

melancholic melody—I

seek the one to share

an umbrella.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Pinterest)

Semaphore-Jimmi Campkin

Jimmi Campkin, today on SD. ❤

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California.  Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood.  Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight.  You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun.  You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning?  And it isn’t rhetorical.  Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.

Later that day, we conquer the sea.  You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes.  There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call…

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Dead Mothers Don’t Dine

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I dreamt I was miniature, traveling through a labyrinthine trailer park diseased with taupe colored muck, and flip-flopping mudskippers; pectoral fins glimmered in waves, despite the sunless, flat grey ceiling of a sky. My skin screamed at the loathsome goby touch, and my mouse heart beat savagely against its cage. Panic drove my legs, and then I was airborne, peddling.

I just knew I’d make it home.

Touching down in a blue sky town dressed in purple hued Victorian architecture, my height increased with every footstep; I kept growing until I reached 5 feet, 6 ¾ inches. I walked past a liquor store that also sold Native American art, and was reminded of you. The booze bottles displayed in the front window sparkled in the sunlight like your eyes did, once upon a time in another plane of reality.

Fade out…

Fade in…

I attend an outdoor Thanksgiving dinner. The grass is long, soft, and deep green—so lovely beneath my bare feet. A long table is sat atop a small hill; a plump, silver haired woman wearing a powder blue house dress is arranging place settings. I see your name card. Your plate has been set upside down, and your napkin, folded, placed at the left. There are no utensils, or chalice set for you.

Dead mothers don’t dine.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Rooster Magazine)

 

 

Violence Domesticated

Today on Whisper and the Roar for Domestic Violence Week.

Whisper and the Roar

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Violence

domesticated Woman.

Pot Roast Sundays

tasted better

prepared

with broken ribs.

He loved her hair so much that he’d take greedy handfuls.

I still see her, slumped over the stove, cooking Sunday dinner,

bruised, and bleeding into boiling pots.

Split lips were all that wept in front of him. She saved her tears for me.

 

Violence

domesticated Woman.

Sex was best when

she begged for life

at noon

when the kids were awake and watching cartoons.

Only we weren’t paying attention to the television—

we were holding each other, and swearing to each other

that everything would be all right as long as we stuck together.

And we grew up,

perfectly groomed for marriage.   

Violence

domesticated Woman.

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Hitek)

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Bipolar tides

Stop by Henna’s blog and have your mind blown by her stellar skillz. ❤

Murder Tramp Birthday

We drowned in the painful twilights by NataliaDrepinasource

You are mud and seashells, gale and lull, give and take. During ebb, when the world condenses into white-purple flashes and soft euphoria, I can reach down to plant a kiss on your slimy forehead. On other days you remain a secret, a soft glimmer beneath the waves, a statue of sharpened rocks barely concealed by the water’s brim. There are times when I can only see the tip of your fingers, sticking up above the surface under which you wait for me, still I know you’re there, waiting, moaning with the flow. You paint me as your queen – eyes like shipwrecks and with the hands of every drowned swimmer entangled in my hair, and the mire beneath our feet sighs in content as it begins to pull us down.

To those of you who might still remember me – I’m back! Sort of. I know I’ve been…

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Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

Allie Nelson today on SD. ❤

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

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The Terrible 2s

Today is Poems & Paragraphs’ 2nd birthday.

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Oh, my Glob! Thank you, David Bowie! You’re awesome, too. Almost as awesome as my readers, friends, and partners in crime. I’ve met some terrific talent and beautiful souls here on WordPress–people who I look forward to crossing paths with every day. Rather than celebrate the birth of P&P, I celebrate my community, and give my deepest thanks.

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I promise to continue writing my truths, and supporting the collectives I’m so fortunate to call friends and family. And I will never stop advocating for those who need to borrow my voice. I’m looking forward to another year of challenges and growth. It makes my heart smile knowing that I have all of you–I hope you know you have me, too. FOREVER.

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P.S. expect tantrums.

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