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Saw your face today at the supermarket;

you watched me under the counter and

over the mustard

potato salad.

Oh! How far you’ve come;

I should say thanks for spitting down my throat.

Thanks for the lies, babe;

for nothing is truer than venom.

You never did have the intention of making me an

honest woman.

It’s been years, but still you burn me;

my reputation smolders,

and I see the smoke in their eyes.

 

I’ve been forgiven, but not forgotten.

 

I hate you,

but I’ll take a half pound of your pastrami.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

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The fables between us 

Satirical metaphors prance 

The ironies bleed pretty white lies 

Sarcasm bursts like ejaculation 

Covered in Satan’s thick liquid

Storybook pages stick together

 

The fables between us

Sardonic recitals

Recited by jesters and

Ponies dance in time while

His portal opens to swallow us all

 

Sadistic hymns 

Written by gargoyles and 

Unicorns prance in the clocks while 

Her throat opens to consume the tale

 

Sadistic hymns

Hummed at Sunday Mass

Panic the court and

Constable is lighted aflame

 

Tarnished fairy tales 

Scripted by euphoric lovers 

Dripping sweat lingers in the air 

Scent of religious perfume 

Lurks between the satin sheets

 

Tarnished fairy tales

Playwrights

Tragedians

Star-crossed nothing

But sky

Moonlight paints you

Angel white and me

The daemon

 

Stonewashed dogma 

Doctrines drenched in your spit 

Undressed teachings 

Relentlessly misinterpreted 

Forgotten verses 

Lyrics shredded 

Constantly concaved 

Staring into the phantasm 

Sucked in by your gospel

 

Stonewashed dogma

Canon loaded

Peace be with you…

 

Braeden- italics

© Kindra M. Austin and Braeden Michaels

Don’t forget to check out Braeden’s excellent blog, Storm of Ink.

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Our loved ones who’ve risen

and live now in the bless-ed skies of rose gold—

they beam down upon you two,

as we all who breathe are

smiling upon your grand

unification.

 

This day, you’ve both chosen to

tie your souls together before devoted eyes.

We are all bless-ed

witnesses

to these oaths.

We are all bless-ed

to be in the presence of genuine love.

 

Nicole—

my sweetest girl,

I know you

as surely as I know the cadence of my heartbeat.

The first time I held you,

I knew

you were meant for me.

 

Now you’re meant for him, too.

 

Isaiah—

young man of conviction,

I trust you

as surely as I trust the rhythm of my lungs.    ,

I know

your hands were meant for hers.

 

The journey has begun;

 

Go forth with Virtue of Truth in

mind,

mouth,

and deed.

Honor one another with Respect;

for weaved within its fabric are the

sinews of great character.

 

The journey has begun;

 

Go forth with all of our love and blessings.

 

 

Nicole and Isaiah Rodriguez—25 August, 2018 

 

© Kindra M. Austin

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For a minute or more, I was dead as you,

as you were technically dead

before the end was absolute—

before your brain conceded.

For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark,

engrossing, on the cusp of consent.

Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and

they called dibs on my vital organs—

heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs.

One expressed explicit interest in

my spleen—

keen student of human anatomy,

morbid corvid.

Then a cardinal came with your breath on its wings,

and I breathed.

I just breathed.

I breathe still…

 

© Kindra M. Austin

image: Houston Audubon

 

 

 

I listen to Radiohead

when I contemplate killing you—

I want to smash your glass and

get at the inside of your meaning.

Shells tell different truths—

look at me.

See,

I’m right and tight

with my plastic teeth,

and painted eyes that never blink.

We mislead, you and me.

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© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Gifer)

 

 

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Tramadol Toxicity—

that’s a real bitch-ity.

Surely

Narcotics

are dirty

Sarcastics?

 

High risk

for addiction

and dependence.

Can cause

respiratory

distress and        h

death               g

when            i

taken in  h

doses

or combined

with other

substances,

especially

alcohol.

 

You didn’t mean to,

Mama.

Accidental.

Too much pain.

At least I know now.

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Hi.

I’m Kindra—alcoholic.

It’s been thirsty seconds since my last drink, and

thirty nine years since my last confession.

I turn forty in December.

I’ve kissed a few girls,

dropped acid

once,

finger fucked myself eleventy hundred times, and

committed adultery with an Englishman

who won’t leave me alone—

my pussy is lined with gold.

I smoke pot with my dad,

who abhors alcohol.

 

Hi.

I’m Kindra.

My mother was an alcoholic.

I don’t know how many times she’d

finger fucked herself, or how many joints

she’d smoked while riding shot-gun with my dad.

I don’t know if she’d ever dropped acid, or how many times

she might’ve wished she could confess to a god who’d

forsaken her.

All I know is that her life isn’t my problem—

I don’t have to make amends on her behalf.

 

My name is Kindra, and I battle against alcoholism.

I understand why I use, and I’m determined to

crush the crutches.

 

I’m determined to live for me.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: The Piano Bar)