xmas issue

Page 1


xmas issue

stolen poem the

idea yolanda mora form susana martinez creativity yolanda mora susana martinez stcy l. welch robin carlos garcia caamiĂąa jen sjolund ms.art leeza coleman marian webb


all works are copyrighted by their authors for more information please write to jackiemorvic@yahoo.es

stolen poemxmas issue the


stolen poem the

robin p6 yolanda mora p22 stacy l. welch p72 leeza coleman p80 jen sjolund p86 marian webb p87 carlos garcia caami単a ms.art p94



yolanda mora

Office 8 to 5, before work - i arrive earlyBRIONY Silly Billy bbq ok. He would take care of me. But i dont´t need a nurse, a nun, i have myself, alone- when my sis and I were teens and would write feverishly our diaries we ate desserts and musesourselves,and our spicy dreams; craving love craving sex like riding horses-

I remember

Bbqs by the swimmingpool with our family, now my siblings are done with that silly stupid thing. Snob art is more important for them, houses decoration. Painting, gigantic Stampas for me, i write her poems on skin, ink. I wash them a little when i come here . New friends: Billy bbq, instead of me. I have a bill but it´s not the same, i want Billy for me. My handwriting

changes too, now, as i sit at my old typewriter, office hours 8 to 5. Mother, the courier is done, but i don´t have enough money will you buy this beautiful blouse for me?

Get out of bed, get out of bed. And live! But to live How!!

Daddy won´t start a spark in the fireplace. I cut&paste witches in the bonfire. Me.me. me. But who is this craving me? The reports to mummy in Mieres, like a child of 1 6: sis, 1 4. We were in love of the same Billy bbq ok. Bbq ok, i crave, long, detest everything. Todo me sobra.

Random thoughts, that´s all me. “Es una azafata de congresos”.

She´s beautiful, smirk and smirk and sweetly i smile, bountifully. It´s not my fault. I am beautiful too!!!! It´s not my fault when i discover a poet, i mean, a rose among the weeds (pot), or spot, or stain or shade in my new blouse.

“Nadja”. I discovered my brother, with him, he´s so fucking wise, so fucking liar!! Bitch! Her/Me at the same time-

Time goes by so spiderly fast, i was to write fart. And afraid of needles this morning. Quickly, quickly, i was 10, sticks in the throat sores so much, caught a sneeze again, what is not weird, in this office.

Blemishes when Billy went to London to make a living. Out of a hotel, 5 stars. Blemishing myself- or him, yes, him. He was supposed to get married soon. My love, my love... Tunis honeymoon. And the artists i love. Tunis light. I got blind. And i wore kohl. In my big, wide open eyes. I crave for arcs, and arks. Maybe arcks... i crave for ANYTHING. I crave for craving. Take this pain, make an effort and get to work. But doctors are coming today. I don´t want to see doctors anymore. Old, dearest typewriter, hot fingers, now, hot machine. The weather is cold. Sunbeams in water in swimming pool. Fireplaces darken in the sunny morning. Please daddy, i need fire- for you won´t die from smoking but from fire, from falling

asleep, so early afternoon, so early, so early, love too soon makes you this--I could write in this sheet forever. But it´s 8. Boss fucked his lover, wife i imagine waiting in bed, reading a bad book. Who called? Who gossiped? The neons, we needn´t them. There´s so much light in here. The dark office room darkens our make-ups. We are 500. Bbq this Thursday. Or wed-nesday. Who marriesto whom? A wedding- I hate weddings. This comrade marries this catholic girl. Oh, she´s pretty. She´s younger than me. I don´t care, i don´t care. Billy. Gossip- she looks older than bridegroom (,,,) (...)let me tell you my name. Briony Brionen. things darken now; love too early makes you witchy and bitchy. Oh, if my boss sees me doing this extraordinary writing i am sure he kills me. I long to get fired. Kills me. Billy kills me. I am bored of that. Looking backwards, the diary of Marie Wassiltchikoff, or Marie Bashkirtseff, or the diary of Anne Frank i read when i was little‐

bookworm, i buy tons of books. “Ella es una Azafata de Congresos”, poor job i olden her, i make up English, married to a Nobel Prize, japacese poet, i serve tea to my girls. 2nd breakfast turn. You are tagged: “No sé cómo me las arreglo pero siempre acabo hablando con la máquina registradora, y el corrillo de chicas, apartadas de mí…” Oh, i keep writing english, so they won´t understand me. Nobody here speaks english. Chinese course. It´s 2025. My 25th b‐day. backwards. old.

My cousin is 40. My other cousin is 32. Youngster still. I went to the theatre last night. A man masturbated by my side, so i am pretty. Or the movie was pretty, i can´t be sure. My cousin of 40 loved too early, she almost went mad. And it was me. We are so similar. I lunch and read like a slut. The row of girls are so far apart. They hate me. I drink soya and eat an apple. Gigantic hyper-radiance around my hair. “This girl is not normal” they say. She went to the hospital by herself, she used to type in a black screen, the computer was always off. “Oh, that´s cool” Now she´s in a loonybin, or her old, poor and old mother took care of her, can´t decide... Mary. He won´t take away all this garbage. My apartment is small. I paint my nails. My hair longer and longer. Chilly, looking for another café, where they are not. I can´t stand my girls, sweet and sticky group of babies, they are like kids, stupid children. I am the true Grownup. I have high i.q.

Oh, my scarf. So i must use my hair wrapped around my neck as a beautiful, blonde raccoon--love me. I wash my hair for my neck. I wash my hands, my armpits, feet for him every 5 min. I write down the conversations. Oh, kids! New furniture again. White. And polished. The old one was new, but. It was pea-green murky. Now everything brightens everything.

She was schizophrenic.

I sip my coffee and smoke--- pot hidden in my pocket. That´s for later, after work, at home. What home? Mine. Yes .expensive rent; i live downtown and is near my work. (...)

(...) to be continued

goce. ...

goce.self-erotized.creatividad need so much to touch. really touch... té de canela para evitar pesadillas que continuan en otros sueños. or i´ llkiss kill my you,feet. i mean, i´ ll call you. the feminine brothel---inparaloveno with this joy. este goce que da el té de canela dormir más en mi día libre. i´they m starving. necesito comer más. ellos comen poco, are old parents. yo soy una chicarrona. old girl. big big girl. y el museo eats my energy up--- utterly! miro con ojos famélicos, grandes y rasgados, almondlike, la comida comida lentamente por ellos excepto aunt y yosentimos, y mi hermana. hunger!! joder, parecemos siamesas. comemos y dormimos lo mismo. ella viene y yo me tumbaré a su lado y tendrá a su hija. we are decoring the house. white pure and virginal ready for the spurt of blood and baba. hablo del goce de la ansiedad, o el goce de la creatividad, goce sensual, goce in love with thanatos and eros at the same time. pero ahora no siento ningún lodolor, contrario a la morfina. sólo goce. podría elegir, para darle salida de escape, para sublimarlo, escribir esto omasturbarme. pero noni follar. me apetece humedecerme los touch. dedos.tocar no quiero esto es más allá. i want to el cielo con las manos. tengo que quedar bien con el echado barómetro, oh contrato that old big lover. podrían haberme en el anterior por las faltas sin justificar. puedo decir que el barómetro me me salvóquedan la vida. ayer,y sentada en el barómetro, pensaba, 5 días ycambiar mi personalidad aquí ha sido ésta. ¿Cuándo vas a las cosas, yolanda? ¿o son las cosas las que cambian por sí solas? oh, saber esperar.

meterme en líos una y otra vez. sacar lapata del fango. now i am clean. neat an dressed up, hippie-like, ready to go out al mundo. red and blue and purple colors--poisen is the future, my own fucking future, so i think. as a mature woman i can´ t cook a lambchop without feeling that i am fat, and gross and uncreative. wanting to eat meat. but we aremeat. and meat will be. dizzy i´ m going to bed. feeling this joy, este goce, angustia o creatividad, estado cercano a lanotlocura. but now i am clean. clean but ready to cope with that kind of woman my mother was. oh, s´ he´ s PERFECT-childish thinking. ha! se hace laa fuerte, she cooks, soohshehoneyeats. she talks lot, chatty womanshe can repain things, she can see beyond, she´ s my therapist so so many times. elhacegocetanto de tiempo escribir que esto,nosimplemente. sentía esta explosión; capable to paint, write now. this. my sister´ s unborn baby. oh to give birth to someone, child-bearer. ya nomás duermo más de hoy lapara evitar ella lado negativo realidad. actualidad. las noticias. almost don´ t do tv. don´ t do newspapers desde hace tanto.... yo como. bebo agua. y una taza de té. y elpuestas goce devuelve. como las terroríficas sol en Alicante. goce de angustia. sex-ridden? self-erotized me. selfself. me me me.love-ridden. ahora tengo este goce que sobrepasa todo lo terrenal. es pura electricidad. i could fuck a million croatic soldiers. yes! i am ready to paint now. to my sister. love

that game between two sisters muse in bathingsuit, the new venus around here, the new vulva-woman, Carl [jung?] the detective woman with spread legs spread-legged girl both shaved vulvas. he took photographs of their vulvas, behind transparent bathingsuit The bath The swim bath Bathen, The Bathers, father. the World a world, UFO thing children with broken necks in mom..s laps the World is a cube. i am in love and i am very depressed, sister. (mannequins, dirty, like the whole country, Austria) one of the mannequins open its arms, like hugging welcoming you. or escaping, dancing.

to escape from V. closed world- to drive mad is a good way, as good as any other, of escaping this A world.

deep deep into the desert no minds, no cleverness, a woman painting, Art for men. (Generaci贸n del 27) and what is my sis doing in the middle of all this trauma? she gets pregnant


i am the bohemian, the depressed bad bad girl. oh i want a man to feel

to feel empty of this vacuum. what shall i do, paint-photograph-just, write? sister, your turn.

sis: i don..t have girl friends like you have, big big sister. i am anguishe, pregnant, my breasts come upon a tummy too round. the belly splits open like melon. or i least there is a stripe, a line, a verticality. una linea vertical que recorre todo el vientre y me preocupa. sis: 多no has visto a otras mujeres embarazadas?

sis: the feeling of... some desire escaping runaways followed by the activist therapist detective addicted detective to runaways People, men and women who are confined, confused supposed to live in a happy village where everything sleeps, dreams, oh my God. sis: is that what you really feel NOW?

sis: and there..s a baby, fighting with little fingers for life, in life, because she..s alive! she must be alive. i live alone to learn.

ruel lola

children have no art in taking pictures making pictures, they are beautiful but always jumping, jumping. it..s hideous to have a round belly to carry on around the Barometerthe beautiful thing is to have them little, little Lola. to be clean and beautiful clean. sorry child, you..re not good for me. with your four beethe legs impotent, deaf, absent. and a red bulb light to take care of you. your friend is red whore fire haired, little waves of tongues out of the pyre. your friend is good to you, all your friends are good. to spend money is his fault, is not much of a murder but oh it..s so tiring, mine is my money. i give it all to him, the pimp. you get milk from me this soya milk. for my bones, my mind.

your monkey face flushes and it is so tiring. i crucify myself to your crib slave of your smile. your round eye has the color of your anus. a worm crawls inro your nose. i scratch your nose to alleviate you while your father crawls over the body of his lover, Lola. is this really happening to me? or my big eye deceives me? i can..t see, i can..t see the truth anymore. what the right choices are.

schizop gir to little yolanda Lola. june 2009 schizophrenic girls.

1. father has a pistol father wants to kill the girls father wants to go to jail then. sister..s sufferings. that way she..d stop suffering. agony kills me, maggie. 2. i walk in the light of the slide projector without slides likea star. i see my own ass profile the four possitions my waist, my bag, black jacket muscked thighs- slender. leashes of stuff- meat. oh, she..s, that girl..s schizophrenic. she thinks of water cleaning sweeping the ashes draws a drawing with her potty pee. she..s a girl- she vomits the water she snacks splashshe drinks the fen water of venice, she..s her own double shadowshe..s silent. she travelsto find her shadowed sister. for her father has a pistol-

phrenic rls she..s scrawny, she..s unmuscled she washes, she neat, she doesn..t eat. or she eats. eats bourbon coffee acidy taste of dregs. les demoiselles en parlent "I am anchored in the avant-garde" je jamais jamais jamais would buy a bottle of white wine, this is my mother spinster but she fucks. she..s married. she..s a spinster shuns love but not yet, not yet, opening her legs, arms, ass she..s gluttony, a pain in the ass. she calls herself her first necessity. spoiled spinster. men who come and approach, then they are far away, all of a sudden! visions, visitors have to travel abroad, shadows this room in the hospital is so yellow dark. she..s ajar. she purges her body with water she dies from waterism hypnotizing water from mouth to glass to mouth toglass of water purged bottle topurge bodies and souls.

3. -she thinks it..s a dentist sanctuary. -she thinks it..s the psychiatrist. -she thinks this this is labia and allthis sex exploited and purged with water the punishment, a baby a babydollish adulthood. hospital green;silver hospital, yellow sun peeping through the bars, the mirrors. -i write as if i were youshe says. -love came too soon to meshe says. i doesn..t deserve to be so happy. -she suffers isolation in the mob. i painted her burntout face, now she loves herself. andof course she hears voices that for sure. otherwise she would not be schizophrenic. the diagnose the engines of the barometer the meds, the meds, the doctor and the beautiful therapist. she..s a woman of her age her her her and her age. hers. -i..m crazy because my sis is mad. -her signature, a cross over her middle name -i..m terrified.

fleur. my grandmother. collage

once she tried to commit suicide. her husband stole all her money, and lands,sus tierras... suicide=to be very angry.



the polyedric queen of lust orgasm after orgasm polymorphic lovers an orgy in this flower. the lame son smashed the mate with two fingers. all this happened in a loony bin long, long time ago- where i was secluded. it couldn..t be a sting. the bee queen was busy

building her own body pleasure the translucent eggs she was not awarelover after lover mated her. only one lover died, with the queen. his fingers were sticky with a penis and sperm. that..s why i..m pregnant now. where i was secluded, where she was secluded she said even more nonsense, he is reluctant to go to bed with her. i am free of that now. i remember the bee queen the red flower, anemona the collage, which i recorded in my book like at College: it was the same: the healthiest learnt things i can..t learn now. the foolest drooled and and stared at the yellow wall. not my grandmothertwo rooms for each of us. she, the anorexic girl, her/me, won the prize of poetry. i sucumbed i almost died of love- enormous love. the bee queen buzzes shrieking moans. i am cured, i don..t need a smashed orgy anymore.


mating. in the middle, the big red flower cut paper collage the shape of a woman..s genitals. and spiraled breasts. an encounter, ghostly, an orgy. five leaf to save the rose in bloom five lovers to save the queen, an orgy of buzz and shrieks. the queen is orgasm after orgasm, slippery chair, la chair, meatsex sweet, sex hard, sweetie, come on, come! the lovers tiny penis deft, skillful, carefulyet ugly hairs black and yellow, the bees the males the beasts. the vicking bee queen wears her garments

little by little she is naked, black black red-faced- i can..t breat the heart, high pressure heart-attack at 42. "i need more spires". five penises crowning the rose, leaf, meat. this chair is red the smell is acidy, i want that parfume, the parfume of the queen. arianrod was made for love.


orgasm after orgasm an egg is the result Fleur. parfume i don..t know her name i met her sister she told me how to smell the roses, bees, kill the queen otherwise she would be dead. she fed from air, did not eat anything i was anorexic kindred soul. i saw the set table scenary obituary, stationery. i meant to make some mistakes the queen of College died she got married, i saw the picture of the thin wedding, the complete mating of bumblebees and orgasm after orgasm i skipped the fence i skipped the last dinner, i hated to hear she..d killed herself. but the eggs she laid are now in my hands, my mindthe lame boy of 25 smashed the mating. but i saved the eggs, i saved the eggs. it was a forever spring thing. i was always a cycle, 2005 again and again. and!


sketchbook what are your inclinations? incline over here and watch the movie properly. he watches pornography. free of their erotic demandings, feet, furs, hurt. climb up the staircase & marry the one who doesn..t demand, doesn..t demand my otherness. my body wasn..t enough it had to be decorated fragmented, segmented like Art. i just wanted an animal fur. the wit of his hot hotel-like staircase ended here, in a path of red chevelure, mad madaline. incline your hair to the East, you will see the whole picture of it. the extended version of it. the longest one. typed in red and black. not mutilated, not fragmented, un-wedded, unsegmented to something new, something with a fat large stomac and a fence. skip the fence the long long red hair to the ass. i am clean of warts in the nose, (witch), props. not bondage, no-nothing but nakedness, nudity, pre-raphaelite purity, pure orgasm. marry the one who climbs up your fire red hued staircase. he was a boy, he was a cat, cast wart he was lame, limp, deaf. i had so much coffee beer coffee sandwich that i vomited i had to smoke so much that i am infected. he was an intelectual. black hair, low eyesi quit now

squid ink to rub myself i am black clean of their erotic demand. one swam in a lake with limp limb suitor with a glass eye. they were tall but she towered over them she was so pure, my mother, almost from Germany. you can see them in the blurred picture melodramatic she and him in the early 1 900 black hued trees and bright sky summer afternoon in the woods, in the lake. i am blonde in my childhood. she is blonde in her last years. i can..t, can..t forget it. i wear brown boots, jeans, blue jacket, uncombed hair long. they dislike me, the way i look the way i look and seem is me. i am messy, i am muggy, i am cold. i am the early evening blue sky the blue hour, blast of wind on your face and raw feet(from the lake). i am spazzing when i am walking when i choose a continent to live on. i leave messages with content. i choose photographs i make my own sketchbook. i built it up till it became a fan so full of pictures it was. i love you, mother. you marry the exact father. the one who doesn..t want to see my pictures (i am a child, you are supposed to endure a pregnancy) the one who never speaks but cries in the night. my mother, why are you making everyone of us cry in the night? you, the blonde picture you..re inclined to know and know everything. my first sexual intercourse

four, forty, fourteen. when is the normal age? eight, you say. what he did is normal, you were just kids. but he towered over me. he didn..t marry me. up the blue staircase i hear lovemaking sounds. the next day i learnt he was dying of cancer in the hospital. how could that be? what could have been? the noise of a knife cutting onions Art is a mattress up and down. i was floating in bed when he fucked me. i was beautiful ass witch, nose with a wart. oh mother how could that be? my mother, help my sister.


hea i killed him

heart: with a co makes me not to makes me not to

i can..t sleep in t

the life i am use

up in the cot, i w i don..t want to

he was a corpse. a mummy is his bed, in his appartment. in his studio. a muscled body. i cried and cried, asked him why he heart: always as didn..t call me. he died of pneumonia. why didn..t he take an aspirinlie beside you he..s dead now. we, mother and i, placed him in a casket in a hole on the wall, heart, closed do under an altar made of white stone. he, a virgin? a saint?

for more. i entered the hole and mum said why did i want to sleep there, but i was only cleaning the place, the corners, the stipes between the stone floor, the border lines. and i was in a countryside looking for some food, chips in paper bags or whatever the hell he..d been eating. i didn..t mean to sleep there anymore, i wished it so much, though; but didn..t want to sleep with a heart like a hur dead (body). i am sick of dead.

my he was wearing my slacks- transference, my slacks , red and purple, maybe thei will color ofcrash the muscles. when you are alive, when you are dead, and cloth and muscles melt. and confound most of the time themselves.

always i am not confused. i have a clear mind. it was the dream of separation. yet i wept. as one asking fo weeps in funerals and farewells- Be well, you, take care of yourself, anywhere you are. i make me alive. loved you, i am a good woman, i am free. and clean.

i..ve had a shower this very morning. i feel clean. strong.

working m mum, you make me nervous. her talk every morning in her bed- i havewe..re to smoke again. she tells me her dreams- i didn..t tell her mine. what for? she suffered all the process of the slow separation with me--- in different shif isuffocated her. i killed her. i killed my mummy. when you pronou i don..t want to i..m 8 years old.

i..m still scared.


heart: with a countryside accent

ountryside accent makes me not to go home go home

makes me not to go to bed

go to bed

i can..t sleep in the long, cold nights‐ the life i am used to‐

the long, cold nights‐

ed to‐

up in the cot, i want to couch you i don..t want to encroach you.

want to couch youheart: always asking for more encroach you.

lie beside you

sking for more

heart, closed door, open your heart for more. in a countryside accent

oor, open your heart

heart like a hurt whore,

e accent

rt whore,

i will crash my car against your brick door most of the time always asking for more;

me alive. car against your make brick door


or more;

we..re working most of the time in different shifts‐ when you pronounce start i don..t want to go to bed so early

most of the time

i..m 8 years old.


i..m still scared.

unce start

use your heart like a throat throbbing like a baby,

go to bed so early


my baby. love me, eat me up.

the couple un-capacited for the flux of happenings the doll girl has become a dull tongue silent, tense, teen-aged and you can..t fall in love with this numbness! no, you can..t and i can..t. rigid breasts, red indeed, jeans, short-haired with a belt so obsessively trendy, so rigid, you held in the palms of such beauty when you were nakedbut you can..t love it you can..t. somethings..s been stolen, three years ago. rorscharch tests: swimming pool!

empty but painted with blue namely, clean, clean mom taken out of nightmares. snapshots have been lost, brokendesire. i was used to hold a tummy instead of a man and i can..t feed my love for that much it..s gross, fat and empty-souled match. farts, farts out of unloving couple. i can..t fix the troubled flow of happenings, it smells so acidily in my coffee tongue. defenseless. strong in bed. a thimble, a thunder. -a thimble for your thin finger, babyfied -a thunder for your orgasms- ash, ick thick belly, you can..t reach me anymore.

wastebasket of my bedroom- i eat there, i am the abducted girl from near vienna, a mad little village.

wedge into your thighs and take a picture of that while there..s a mirror reflecting what you are doing.

- subconscious are the to pressing my forehead feet my ex used and bite, and thinking, thinking, thinking adore as i was drinking, drinking, now i bite the faucet with two of my toes drinking two years ago. over the clean sink. - subconscious is a still freudian, isn..t it? life of a forgotten pear rotting in a corner of - subconscious is to the kitchen. i had to open your legs at a sweep hard to make it corner of your childlike disappear on the bed, letting the angle

- subconscious is your lover..s face, and arms spread towards you in a photograph you take when you were still lovers, december 2007. a face with eyes closed and half smile. arms spread as if he were being hypnotized.





the spoon with two fingers to


pass spoon

the into is



my mouth. phallic.


the two

fingers are my two fingers


- subconscious are all the photographs of -subconscious are all mme. the poems i wrote in 2007. but now i want - but i want the really the really subconscious ones. for subconscious stuff. me. the feet. a fetish. which means feet. the eyes, mouth, feet were the key for anus. fetish-stage. our split. subconscious totem. taboo. voodoo. hating of tickling and subconscious is my toe-sucking. hate for my lovers. subconscious is the - subconscious is the desire i have for mess on my drawing painting subconscious table. canvases as i used to do when i was at -subconscious are all "College" (Mensalud: my dreams. last night Mental Health). i dreamt on my subconscious is the dearest swimmingname of "college" for pool full of weeds with this mental institution. bulging hairy potatolike bulbs. they - good news: i..m not covered the blue mentally ill, it is my womb of the hole. feelings that are hurt, waterless but a green my emotions that are substance where the ill. so i..ll have ups bulbs and seeds and downs like the floated. mad dreams. rest of people. what is their meaning? subconscious is the the split with lover or desire of being really a possible and mad. and mad about eventual pregnancy. i lover and mad at shall risk to ask lover, madam. Marisa.

- subconscious is the quick question-answer Marisa plays with me. she sucks my soul, absorbs my mind and then she turns my body upside down to see the bulbs fall. subconscious is my fear of cancer, bulbs inside the body and to know that some of our neighbors are dying of breast cancer or lung cancer. subconsciously i wait for cancer, yet my family is healthy... now. - subconsciously i thank goddess for painting those subconscious snapshots. -thank you.


diary of growth paltrow dear diary, i am sixteen torn apart from lovers the pornographers took me to the hospital they tied my beautiful briar rose mouth to a better vomit. my head ached with such violence that the wind outside the cracked window-pane was nothing, i mean, nothing compared to the ragged palms of my neuronae. am i being a knowing-it-all? no, i am fourteen, i MUST say what i feel, what i saw and i feel so much better then, oh then. i´ve read the romantic poets, the suicidals, the impotent ones i want to write a book about real love, love, tenderness, not por even soft. no. tired of tied-up limbs, spankings, looking like a human ball looking like a bomb my dirty sandal with sand in his nose, pricks demanding, stooges at my fingers,

his hand, not mine, my panties, pricks by force, by smashing my face. paralysis. tired of my youthful years of disabusing myself you make me feel so old, and maybe wise but spent: thank you, i´ve learnt about spleen, a young lady of my age, with the first corset and first stockings. one, two, three men erased my own self erased me to the point of a real hospital , 1 7 times. at 30 i begin with girl friends hellehn, our satan is backno-one comes with me for medicationn no-one is accused of abuse, rape or fornication sex is so natural, they´d say i talked it out, i talked it out all day long and partof my insomnia night so i´m here at the day hospital here i can play as though i was a child a kid aged 3, or 70 (remember the denouement) here we can play with straws and make beautiful hippie-like necklaces and earrings and bags hoola-hoops, humpty-dumpty the haunchback, the anorexic hansel&gretel: the sleeping beauty. and.

we all here sleep the sleep of beauty we all here are bohemians*see any bachmann poem artists bohemians by the sea. here we grow rapidly i´m 34 now. i am a goddess, the doors slapped shut, gold and barred when i finally left. the round eye of the door had no pupil when i looked back to watch that the round eye has no pain-mate to say goodbye. i´m clinging to the past: i am a salt figure but what´s the next step i demand love. tell me diary what good things are coming. with love

Growth Paltrow""

París, written in 1 995 -bueno, ya te he dejado, y ahora Voy a soñar cómo llegar a mi casa. Las afueras. En el centro todo es un anónimo De gente. Bah, es a la altura de Pigalle. Las terrazas son campanas de cristal y hay Dos personas aisladas tomando Un café, parece que con eso basta, Pero yo sé que luego correrán a suicidarse A su casa. Después de bailar sobre la mesa, hacer Equilibrios con sus piernas perfectas. Gente con la inestabilidad de Edie Sedgwick. Supongo. O tal vez no todo el mundo Es como yo. Te vas. Yo me solidifico. Mi sangre sabrá a corteza de abedul.

Dices: no te preocupes. Pero no son más que chorradas. Lo de siempre. No sé por qué te pones así Cuando hay más de una persona Delante. Todas las cortezas se licúan. Nunca en mi vida vi tanta Nieve separada. No existen aquí los copos.

Los márgenes con líneas blancas Heladas. Y toda la gente frota

Hambrienta su pie embotellado Por el hielo. Los niños gritan más abajo, Donde las ferias nevadas De Montmartre.

Luego estaré mal, ya lo sabes, Es inevitable.

Líquido. Oscuro.


Cada estrella sólida iba de independiente.

No soporto tus chorradas:

(No te preocupes. ¡Qué coño sabrás tú!)

Ya nada es auténtico en Montmartre. Ha imitado teatralmente mi

Leotardos negros, las botas de tacón,

Propia farsa particular.

La musa favorita de la depresión.

Me gusta todo esto. Sin duda. Aquí. Sobre la colina. Sin más. Comme ça.

Juanas de Arco por todas partes. Iglesias.

Paris Intento, sabes que lo hago, Decir Merci.

A las 4 anochece

Y entonces todo quedará olvidado Soy una tumba del cementerio. Esas casitas de piedra

Apretadas, histriónicas, Independientes.

Seré la tumba que visiten los Extranjeros de las cámaras Automáticas.

Y harán Clic Clic frente

A la leyenda de la chica del Gorro irlandés, la de los

Incluso Rodin.

Era guapo Rodin. De joven. Toda Su mirada, los ángulos.

El modelado de las colinas de Mármol de Juana de Arco. Él me dijo que había

Una muchachita que amaba a Rodin.

female mannequin Stirring machine of shit, I eat dirt. Thick cheeks i see in you Swollen belle belly, a belle bell Nipples- gross , but like strawberry I nourish from my own flesh I absorb dirt i ate last night I eat and drink shit. Locked in a museum, wood Mannequins, mannequins raped And absorbed Hair,

Here, here in the loins. I stand in the lobby, Hobby for many, Paranoia feeds my thoughts, Suburbia down-town. I look at you, you never kiss You never hiss love poems To my mind of straw, and cheesecloth. I don´t have a heart, it´s a wall. Colors: orange, white I am not a Kandinsky: Colors mean nothing to us

female manne Your blonde hair...

Fake stirring, caressing; cherish The un-nipples, non-breasts, They taste of closed room Dark and dust over your Browning hair, love.

Everywhere i look is a crystal box Inside this museum

People don´t stare but take Photos of me, me, me. I have a signature By my love

Orange and white (the cracks In wood, latex, barbwire legs) Why am i so thin?

..................................................................... Panicking this hour to that hour.

The end of panic locked up in this Flesh of rubber.

Gangsters, movie stars, all punishable. Ready to open my mouth And talk, talk, talk. And talk.

One day i´ll do so.


Outside, the stone woman Drops her thick cloack Blind eyes, can´t see me either. Look at me, baby! Green cheeks of envy, i only eat Greens and only greens To sweet skin. No pimples. white powder. This is my home after all. I have a meaningful heart. ......................................................................... I once belonged to Marie Antoinette´s head. That means something.

me i love Fuzzy! with great great love and scorn Okay, you know? I was raised in a big family—ingrown woman. As i was in my bed, drinking Vodka and taking a lot of pills (now i know Fuzzy would take a lot of pills To calm his temperament, his nerves) To calm my nerves for i didn´t Know if i was pregnant of Mr. So&So Pondering this and that, you know

eequin That man throws peanuts at me As if , as if this were a zoo.

I once i was high as Marie Antoinette´s head But things grew difficult In those times.

I am now a beautiful junkie

Adoring cobwebs, big thick spiders With mens cramps, worms and

Flies in boxes, Dracula´s girlfriend.

Fuzzy would call me—i was undressed And god he was having a horrible pain In his chest

And god i swear he was having a heart attack I got my sandals on

But god i couldn´t decide between turning off The music and put a dress on

And god what kind of dress to wear To ER. I was 1 9 and couldn´t— Whatever.

You know,

I once was the sex of Marie Antoinette...

He married a girl-woman.

heidi This time is Let me know how i shelter inside the box Wasps attack me with uncanny thoughts Let me explain how i hide, idle in the box This time The box is crystal, but edgeless, i mean I can´t hurt you I can´t say anything I can´t hear more from you And your passionate obsessions I am dressed like insect woman Japanese wrapped in grey.

The girl wore glasses- writer and mothering A girl. Pink mauve blouse. With symbols (everything means everything) Black skirt, plaited. Earrings ambivalent Big- glasses black-edged- trendy for ten Years- till now This time. Stockings, beautiful, and boots riding Horses: chatty and deep thinking And chat, not smothering the audience. Precocious lady of letters “My novel has this scheme ...� Yesterday.

This time is Time under cover, laptop, lapdance, lap, Mother´s lap, here in the box. He can´t see me inside Although i thought i was transparent He can´t see a thing He can´t see what i am. Schoolgirl shoes, black, and red lips Turned into blur and sparks. Incense. Radiators fuming ideals. An oven Let me bake you something. The glasses, i don´t know, and my bun

Of blonde hair, earrings, not too much for a face. No make-up. Lucky, to be blonde, no eyelashes Just a big forehead insinuating swinging brain Big homo sapiens brain. That is me. I can control my novel in front of you all. I can manage, hand on hip, Coughing from time to time, water, interview. Students, students at university (“My novel is studied here. Didn´t you Read it: shame.on.you.”) I need lightness, and this light, sunbeams Entering my box If i fill it with water it will be a Swimmingpool for my baby, for my baby Everything would be okay Okay? (Shame.on.you. i´m a genius and i can dance)

once i was the Greatest. Jackie's journal Sara me daba un colgante que eran los puñitos de boxeador de oro. ¿Un premio por lo Buena que era? Una cadenita. ¿Ves? He cambiado de canción. “Once i wanted to be the greatest” is what i am trying to do now, panting, i mean painting, and letting others to see It. Most don´t say anything. Nothing. Not that much. Others scream and shiver with fear. Or pain. Or pity. Who feels so sorry for me tries to give me lessons to change, para no perder los trenes de la vida. “Era una rara avis”. But he, him, he. Oh.

I danced and screamed for him, to be seen

I played shrieking cello for him, to be heard To be seen. Watch me. See me. Love me.

He didn´t pay any attention to me, the other. The rival. The otherness. Love is almighty, yes, i think so now. But i used to think the opposite. La genitalidad era lo que unía, the same cot, the same panties, stockings, the same cold cold in the middle of the night. And my desperate phone call in the middle of the night.

Pero no era amor.

screaming in panic.

Me temo que la adolescencia sigue aquí conmigo, pero se va a ratos y yo despierto empapada de sudor,

“Once i wanted to be the greatest”

Ahora solo quiero eso.¿Para que me ame? No, ya lo tengo. Han pasado diez años y Sara existe ahora. Sara exists and exits now out of my dream: I give you these golden things, stupid things for me, but i know that those mean so much to you. “If I had a hammer”, if i had a colt—

I was deeply looking into the future. But i am not genius Lem. I´ll never know what´s going to happen. Maybe (for sure) it was just a desire, to find recognition from a girl of ten, from Innocence. Que no dé miedo, que no dé aburrimiento. The greatest auntie in the world. He cambiado de canción. From “Let me whisper in your ear I hate myself and I want to die” to “Once i wanted to be the Greatest”. HA!

And i once was the greatest, a greatest among all the greatest of every College. I mean nothing now.

But that is going to the extremes.

Soy mediocre. A él le basta. For me it´s not enough. Envy in a couple. He´s brilliant, not me.

“Los trenes de Tozeur” de la vida que pasan y pasan y si no los coges, te vas. ¿Por qué dice eso? ¿Qué sabe él de mí?

Secrets. All ears is what i am now. Gossip. Not much. What if she discover my

big secret, my fear that is here. That´s why i am yelling in the middle of the day. Con los puños de oro colgados al cuello, i yell of panic in the middle of the Stage: Don´t look at me, For

My hair is too long

My blouse is so pink

My legs so dry

My glasses, ha, black plaster on my face Ugly, ugliness the world not me not

Me. I don´t hate myself, i hate this crowd looking at some mote on the wall, a someone brilliant speaking in tongues, talking too to me. And i can´t hear, can´t listen well because i panic, my hands tremble, my knees clack one against The other.

Pure fabric my thin thin stockings. My high-heeled boots my pot tea my over-dressed me. Wine white wine please. Please.

Damn them all. I want nudity. What i am used to. This is your friend, your love, your aunt.

Take me as i am.

The Safety Pla thundering High on a nest down the m warm mountain graciousne beyond the rea Child within us all cu uniquely laden on the safety o to land the crawl. whippoorw simply blen pillows. Underneath the too tall to see t grasp unto the grown fingertip Copyright 2 holding the forg Welch, J.D in the bare of n Stacy (All Rights squirrel’s Summ branches. Propping wildly youth’s scrawn unfed limbs ho upon the lips of the s innocence’s rea to the Tales told anyone. Of a black butt could fly anywh backwards to la blemished toes on any brow of To the lower golden lands of wheat holding a solitary blue willow

Stacy was born in Clinton, MO, on June 25th 1 973. Although she now lives on the outskirts of Kansas City, she has lived in many States and Cities therein: Llano, Texas San Antonio, Texas Denver, Colorado Miami, Florida Huntington, West Virginia Springfield, MO Windsor, MO Hallsville. MO Air Force Base, Illinois Army, Kansas Warrensburg, MO

The specifics are many more including Women Abuse Shelter

Diversity is a strong tool to gain any bold intellect. Both living in so many remarkably different places and eight years of College were golden additions. A week after she obtained her Doctorate in Law, a severe wreck almost

ace tled green mountain’s nachable of the ess. rled into a ball of a creeping willing wind nding in e tops of the them almost too ps 201 0 Stacy L. gotten books D.nests lmer Welch Reserved) bunkering y unshaven ny olding the glow smile of action d not so high terfly that here and 24 sf any blue eye took her life. She had a 1 7 percent chance to live, and even less to be in the condition she currently is in. She suffered 7 brain bleeds, skeletal fractures, spinal fluid leak, broken neck, re-broken collar bone, left lower back broken, pelvis broken and vagina. Stacy is a Mother of two children, Hailey Renae Welch, age 11 and Cody Dean Hawken, age 1 6. Suffering issues

such as back including moderate Scoliosis, AVN, Kienboch’s, Stacy still excels in living the life given to her. Perceptions change upon greeting death, and Stacy has chosen to focus on Writing and Art rather than Law which is deadly in and of itself.

poems by Stacy Welch ...

Ignorance's Hook ......

A great deathliness is attached to Ignorance through meak shallowness kidnapping our Shadow Souls with ease - We exist on its’ behalf. Awaiting robotically invisible manipulations longed for to replace our Mass with emptiness inside every human Creature. Copyright 201 0 Trixy Stacy L. Welch, J.D (written on a grocery receipt)


Meak.., n. [Cf. AS. m[=e]ce sword, OS. m[=a]ki, Icel. m[ae]kir.] A hook with a long handle. [Obs.] --Tusser. -----Heads are Round, Vaginas are Square We are full of emotion emotion is full of us – full of vagina a vagina full. It is written out or written in inwards time grows time grows out. Lips unfold outwards and in to the procrastination of a penile existence. Everything is sex anything is sex so we mate and then unmake. Confucianism never died growing with sundials the meters within pouring meteorites out. It cannot fuck away only tuck its’ chin into the belly an infants’ home. Cycles rebirth into another cycle time is cycler we are circular. Copyright 201 0 Trixy Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

The last two are not my typical. Typically these come to my mind, then to a notebook, and maybe the computer keyboard to share. Rather, these last two I’ve sat down simply in front of the computer to see what comes out, by nature of sorts. This is for my Dearling Yolanda Mora, a great Writer and Friend whom I suggest reading.

Pretend Palms -----

Pretend Palms.... This Fall smells of Spring today and I desire to wrap my palms around everything in its’ existence to expand some other day. Colors of corruption are washed down to definition, the “We” are simple Pollutants in a drying pond now. Filths, stains and stews of a very fine cerdo the stinky meat of morons pouring in falls of trout. Not in my hand, no stench, it traps out the false light of hope now hopeless spiraling down downwards. There is no more War, only the pauseless end of the never-ending desirous wind. I shall close my eyes and continue to play this pretend pretense to a new Galaxy where I shall land again. ------

The Safety Place High on a nestled green warm mountain beyond the reachable of the Child within us all curled into a uniquely laden ball on the safety of a creeping crawl.

Underneath the tops of the too tall to see them grasp unto the almost too grown fingertips holding the forgotten books in the bare of nests squirrel’s Summer bunkering branches. Propping wildly unshaven youth’s scrawny unfed limbs holding the glow upon the lips of the smile of innocence’s reaction to the Tales told not so high to anyone. Of a black butterfly that could fly anywhere backwards to land 24 blemished toes on any brow of any blue eye thundering down the mountain’s graciousness. To the lower golden lands of wheat holding a solitary blue willow to land the whippoorwilling wind simply blending in pirouettes.

Copyright 201 0 Stacy L. Welch, J.D. (All Rights Reserved)

Madrid Tiger H Walking through the prado clickety clacking heels across El Paseo del Prado, our widening eyes cross The Naked Maja. We are together in matching red gowns, long curlets dazzle across your shoulder down my back.

Hostels Running back back we run into our own tight hostel hostels of tigers! No entre mierde’ ¡Keep it out – Keep it out! of my Future Casa. Copyright 201 0 Trixy Stacy L. Welch, J.D. For my Yolanda, the love of my life!

leeza co All I want to say to ID myself is that I'm


a New York City native who is a vegan.

Hopefree I don’t do hope Don’t tell me that one must have hope If you must, do, but keep it to yourself Don’t try to change the color of my ink It is annoying unproductive I am not dead and so I do stuff

because that is what people do who are still alive I said that I have no hope I didn’t say that I don’t do stuff So here goes I am proud to pay taxes because I think of it as spending money to benefit someone else and why the fuck not I got the green option even though

my electric bill is more and why the fuck not I recycle and buy recycled because I want to make choices for a future that will not include me and why the fuck not I consider that whatever future there is is my responsibility even though I will be dead at the time and why the fuck not I remain ready to accept hardship as part of what it takes to keep our nation healthy (if only someone would ask it of me)

and why the fuck not Even though I’m happiest alone I know how to act for “us,” “we” and “ours” I don’t do hope I am very happy for your hope Here’s the deal You and I do the same stuff You with hope I without OK? OK Leeza Coleman, 08/201 0

Jen Sjolund Living in Olympia, WA, American writer

inspiration in the natural poetics of life.


You are not free to love me Ties from the past bind your heart Suffocate your soul I see you struggling Bleeding with each rung Of chain you attempt to loosen Banishing all who approach No longer able to distinguish friend or foe Help from hurt Your heart races With each glimpse of the sun You haven't seen for so long Are you blinded by the light? Mourning the pieces of yourself Grafted to the steel rungs Lost to the past I stand hidden in the shadows Waiting with the ointment Helpless to help you Until you come to me Will you remember me here Once your eyes adjust? I watch in hope and horror At the pain inherent In the fight to be free


Marian Webb

In the ocean's blind eye sun and moon weld.

lives in Melbourne, Australia. Previously her work has been published in 'The Stolen Poem' and 'Antique Children' magazine.

Out of their welter a flush of stars arcs memory's aeon.

Salt on my cheek like stars scattered, stars being my bread, star flowers constellate my tongue.

The arc aches. My heart owl-like in the evening, weaving tree to tree her night song

(Who will come, who will love?)

waves under my ground the scent of sound, a grey waste of whales an electric stone.

Carlos Garcia CaamiĂąa (Madrid , Spain, 1967). diplomado en GeografĂ­a e Historia en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid Ilustrador de ideas.

winter collect



tion of poems

mrs. art. I am 40, live in North Yorkshire Uk with my husband of many years and 3 gorgeous boys.I love to write poetry & paint for friends & family.Self taught artist and published poet. I believe in acheiving WORLD PEACE,preserving nature, recycling everything! and abolishing global poverty. I sponsor children in the third world and respect all races religions faiths and cultures.Have been In the jewellery trade for many many years. Art, poetry ,religion ,literature,nature are just a few of my hobbies.

winter collect


Decomposure and daybreak All thoughts collapse Into life’s crooked relapse, Structures are defaced In an abandoned place, All time and space Will become erased Atoms and molecules, Forming altered states, Light beams fade, Flora and fauna decays Only the shadows Of your face remain, The night heaves her cloak In melancholy disarray, The Sun and moon disintegrate, Silver stars they fade to grey, Time and tide are washed away, Sand and surf contaminates Sins and hopes that desecrate, Soft flesh will decompose away, Bones and branches snap and break, Tears sting and stain like acid rain, Until daybreak creeps back in again ...............



mrs. art. Suspended in a state Of animation, All Perpetual motions, All Perplexing notions, Are surrendered inanimately, Relinquished unconditionally.

I’m rolling to a standstill, Familiar voices, Falling into a landfill, Of nudging elbows & hushed chills. I’m frozen over, Snowed in, Sinking under a Forest of barren thoughts, Bare like the winter trees, Shivering in the arctic breeze, They buckle and bow, Under the weight of heavy snow, With Warped and twisted branches, I’m trapped under an avalanche Of peculiar shifting circumstance. Yesterday’s headlines they mean nothing to me, They heave under mounting deadlines, Drowning under piles Of unedited paperwork and late mail, Engines have broken down, Lost and abandoned In quiet rural towns, They have lost connection, Lost direction, I’m suspended inanimately, Watching things grind quietly, Resigning without a fight, Falling down with a quiet ease, Submitting unconditionally to circumstances that are bigger to me........ Mystic lady January 2009


Cryogenic freeze

You know, yes , you should know this, That a quick cold fix of cryogenics , Would be so easy to achieve, To go into a deep chill, a big freeze, Eternally, indefinitely, Block off all emotion, My body immersed in liquid nitrogen , My limbs taut in a crystal formation, Existing only through my brains function, It would sooth all this banality , Of a misshaped, mismatched reality, Or I could just walk away , Far away into a different place, Maybe one day I could regenerate, If I emerge myself in cryogenic waves And become another ice cold slave, drifting from dusk to daybreak, dead in a numbed up, slumbered state, shut off the inner voice that contemplates, that loves to create............ I could occupy my fate in a different way devoid of emotion,defunct of pain, existing in a chilblain semi state, It happened before,it could happen again, Watch me die inside, Watch me freeze in time , Alive I would survive in a comatose , A heart that broke , A body that froze , It couldn't cope , With a life on hold, But now with cryogenics Ive a quick cold fix , My nerves shutting down, Inside this frosty matrix, all that would remain on the astral plane, Would be my soul , and my thoughts again. Mystic lady November 2007 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winter Heart What did they do to your winter heart of hail? Always icy frail , cracks between the crevices wasted on the terraces , eyes like ivy trails, A rusted pick axe , shattering the past , Your dreams a voice like the frosted crackle glass The weeks ,the days the years ,flew past leaving me aghast , looking through pink tinted glass. Left to blow those snowflakes, on your own, You wear a crown, of diamond thorns, Did the tears wash away the paint , the disdain ,the taint , depending on no one again, No blending in those fine lines, becoming intertwined, Barriers are there for a time she keeps you at bay , fears of being betrayed if she falls to the wayside, shell put up a fight ..... Pulled at, tugged at Picked apart at the seams , waking up out of the dust filled day dream, throw out your fury ,with a mocking laugh, because the future is the present , and the present hasn't passed........... mystic lady 2007


stolen poem the