Here on the rolling lawn,
I feel alive and not drugged by that stuff I was on.
It reminds me of how things used to be back then,
When I had my dolls
And Mama had her men,
But I can see you don't believe me.
Springtime is so lovely here.
That's when Papa had his breakdown every year,
Strolling without a care on the factory floor,
Or the courthouse square
In his underwear.
Such a sensitive man, you have no idea.
Don't look so nervous.
Why can't we be friends? Is there some rule?
Some terrible taboo?
Minutes are like hours here.
Experience this.
Really be in it, dear.
Soon lunch time will arrive,
And the police, and the townies drinking beer
Along the fence line. They know that I'm a handsome woman still.
Yes, I know what they're thinking,
And how to use this thing.
My brother robbed banks and taught me well.
____________
Monday, May 10, 2010
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11 spoke through the ouija:
I think this is your best work yet! I loved it. All the images playing off each other, even against each other. Very well done!
Oh nice .. after seeing Thornfield Hall in CBW's post I am again reminded of Mr Rochester ... http://lifeinmathews.blogspot.com/
This gave me the chills, Shay. I see a tragedy playing out before my eyes. So well done!
That is beautiful but sad.
There is no taboo, no rule. We can be friends. I like that idea.
This all sounds so familiar--I believe I was there!
How do you do that?!?!?! AWE-SOME!
More please,
jj
This one took me to a place both familiar and foreign. A perfect paradox for today.
I don't know how you do this, your words so effortlessly spill across the page to describe without duty but with grace your beauty and ferocity on the pages...thank you endlessly.
love you
g
what an imagination!
Great final line...
I really like the rhythm and flow of this one.
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