It is said that eyes mirror the soul, then this third one that only I can see is showing the darkness of it. This strange potential, was it Alexandrei who gave it to me like some joke of a gift? They call her a witch after all. As if she is part of a spirit world with by her ties to the environment.
“Death is the most natural thing, except from farting or shitting but you can’t make a business out of that.”
The explanation is wasted on me since her motives are of no interest. I only want to know what money the task will bring. Another employer, another target. I pray for it to be neither a woman nor a child. Innocents are often the casualties of the worst type of work, where you send a message.
They keep their eyes closed through the ordeal. Approaching the end they loose hope of mercy, please, mercy, and a third eye reveals itself on their forehead. Showing resentment, bitter, almost feral in intensity. I bring it out of people, so I have to kill them. In a way that makes things easier. I close their eyes so that the third will not form.
Turn off this light that is kept running by the power of lemon batteries. A pathetic outlet of electricity, a short burst of light. Flickering, like that good in me which gasps for air under pressure of immense water.
Let me run myself out. Ripping children from their mothers’ arms, tearing souls up and morals down. Collateral damage in the form of my brother’s lungs being chocked by all the smoke he pulls into them. One day Markus will need some form of a lung transplant and I will give my own. Even harvest organs in my body for him. Because the only love I feel is unconditional.
I come home and he does not look at me. Is he trying to avoid my gaze because somehow he feels that I am looking at his shame? I tell him that it is done and he leaves the room, heading for the balcony, one hand reaching for a cigarette. It is hard then, to know what good it really does. Until he comes back to remind me as soon as the money runs low.
He is an educated man. It gave him the power to exercise words and to twist them. What I want to see is through his eyes and perception. Find some sense in this. My understanding of the world is through observations, constructing a fabricate of symbols and metaphors that are not the real thing, only attempts at describing it. I will never quite understand this picture, I am lost in its details.
The eye, that opens only to watch me, tell me what it sees. Explain what is wrong with me. Is it something only reflected in the glass of my helmet, how these bad people show their true selves. Their insides on the outside.
This society is inescapable. It might be that it shaped me like nature shaped the horse to eat flesh. With twisted hoofs that dig for the dead, there is not life outside to feed. Whispering tales of woe.
My target is not so much a large man but his shoulders are broad. As if someone did a lazy job with a mould made of stone, knocking things out of proportion. The most prominent feature is his strong jaw which in combination with a thick neck neck makes him look like an eel. An ugly, surfacing creature coming from somewhere deep down in the darkness. He holds a tight composure, muscles taunt, appearing almost like he is about to pounce at any given moment or sound. But I never allow him to see or hear me coming. Cowardice has never felt ill suited, and so I jump out from shadows. When he turns it is too late. A sensitive nerve is all it takes for this monster to kneel when I jab at his throat with a hand dressed in makeshift brass knuckles. It is as if the whole working station rattle under his weight.
True to the symbolism I see in the man, he starts trashing like a fish on its way to the chopping board. Even gasping for air as he does so. He strikes out with his massive arms but I move too close for the punches to gather strength. At this point all he can manage is a slow twisting to shield himself from me.
I have to distance myself just to see whether he is as twisted inside as his appearance and my employer suggest. Behold. I recognize myself in the gaze of this eye, I am able to see a version of the bad that is in me. This is the connection.
I scream but I do not know why, or at what, grabbing fistfuls of his uniform with one hand and striking blindly with the other. I catch the eye on his forehead which sends him down to my boots. A clumsy heap of muscle that collapses as if stricken dead straight to the ground.
What I have seen makes me stumble and fall, tripping over my own feet. The brute rises before me despite the blood from his neck and face. I had seen him disappear from himself as his eyes emptied out but it seems as something has been replaced. A bright gaze watches over me now and I shrink into myself as if trying to escape from it.
With my blow I had corrected the abnormality. I only killed a version of him. What remains helps me to my feet and swipes dirt off my shoulder. He tells me to stay away from this dangerous place.
I wonder what meaning it is that I fail to catch.Extracting the bad from others, such irony. The most cruel of tricks. Is this your twisted idea of healing, Alexandrei, you rotten shaman? With your lies like your braids, folded in delicate layers. Your spell lifts as you pull me into a dance in a way to seal our business.
Submitted by: ravencor
so simple. so brilliant.
i tried to write about your eyes
but i ran out of cliches
i tried to say you plainly
but there wasn’t enough truth
whoever invented this language
didn’t anticipate you
(I don’t miss him.
I miss our what-would’ve-beens, the
future I don’t get to have. The shoebox
apartment in Asheville, a tiny book-record-coffeshop-club beneath,
sitting on the drumset during a concert, kisses
between songs, the snow melting
between his blonde eyelashes, his nose nestled into the
crook of my neck while we lay,
entangled, on the hardwood floor in
only our socks. The lakehouse
in New York, morning serenades on a wooden dock
with black coffee, him taking Auden out on a little
canoe with his guitar. Three children.
Mountains and valleys and
making them toys and never not having a hand to hold
and fucking in the bathroom of that amusement park,
and crying into his salty shoulder and
him plucking the stars out of the sky for me.
Is it possible to miss
a life I never
I tried to call your name, but
my voice was carried on by
the wind. I cried out for you,
but perhaps it was just a
gentle whisper. Here I wait,
and to you I’m just a ghost.
I’m the girl who waited by
the window late each night.
I’m the girl who was comforted
not by your loving embrace,
but by the worn blankets
sewn from generations past.
The deceased members of
my family are those now that
warm my blood. Your hot
kisses have grown cold from
last night’s cool air, your hands
thirsty for unscented lotion.
The couch I live on each
night is worn and tired of
my perch. My nose and
cheeks are red from the
constant press of the glass
between you and me.
The glass, forever our
barrier. The glass, the cold
wretched glass, forever,
forever our lives, the
barrier, the wretched barrier.
Glass, forever our barrier.
Love is a brittle, brittle beast
within our means to kill
Love is the dead one at the end of the
with a brain like Lear
a gentile, dressed in rags.
Every page has two sides
and every bird has two tones
and to every tone, a pitch
Bones crack and air is wasted
Love is fair and cruel
the asp of youth, of beauty
and of apples that fall not far just to
Sugar is too often doomed to be wasted
and poison is it’s loveliest
when married to the sharp
and hereto used,
forming the last words of a prince
the birttle, brittle beast.
The blood we draw
and do not use
The tears we show
but do not savor
Inside the broken jaw
of a man
what red pools in his ears
Love is the sound that went unheard
love is the broken toy
love is matter
matter is common and easy to replace.
I can feel it when I’m away from you,
separated by this island’s length. I can
see you in my dreams and yet when I
reach out my hand, it swipes through
thin air. I hear you laugh or someone
will call your name and I’ll react. Such
a blatant move to see if you are stood
behind me somewhere in the crowd… but
you never are. You are still miles away
and out of reach. Come back and heal me.
I’ve had enough of this sickness, I need
to find home. Find where you are.
Here, while you’re with me all alone in this place,
take these bitter roots,
these bitter roots, shoots, gnarled twigs, leaves and berries..
they will heal it or make it taste sweeter for a at least a moment.
Our father’s fathers and theirs too drank the sap and inhaled deep the scent, while
our mothers also found their relief in these roots.
Take them up into your bosom or swallow the bitterness of them gratefully.
These are kind, gentle, giving roots.
I knew nothing of these roots till ate them. I ate them from straight from the pot
without hesitation. I was so hungry for satiety
and these bitter roots were sweet for days upon days. Even now it is still sweet,
but the roots are here for you, too to take.
Natalie’s note: One of my favourite poets here. Vivid and daring.
the nightmares are a daft ruse
he will return to his berth, to the gremlins
wrestling his restless limbs
there is no silence, under the covers
ceaseless prickling, the mighty army
abrades the skin, digging fathomless burrows
scratching is no use if
the mines are buried too deeply
underneath, the deaf man follows
his own rhythms, feeling the throb
fumbling, soon the mattress will flip
and all hope will be smothered
the clock insists he is still alive
while the bottle pours a new floor
the coat is slipping to the floor
its sleeves straining to conduct a requiem
an absurd moonlight sweeps the walls
the shadows offering hope, from loneliness
come the echoes of clacking teeth
peeking through the slackened mouth
of old men, no longer real
the doors creaking shut, leave a message
everything is a hallucination, only
the furthest fires have learned to breathe
laid to rest in a clown suit, someone
dressed like Death, attending the funeral
one last prank, when the last light is snuffed
the laughter should still be heard
of a pilgrimage,
an apocalyptic Travel Lodge,
looking for the land between the rivers,
Tigris and Euphrates.
Crippled oil war draftees,
haunted by Paradise,
and dreams of ever more,
we’re slinking toward Babylon
abandoned in desert wars,
past slot machines
and moneyed whores.
We’re the nerve gas warriors
guarding stainless steel kitchens,
ending gas price bitchin’,
sending the sand men twitchin’,
to keep Vegas twinklin’.
We’ll rout the rag,
protect our swag,
and that’s no brag.
See our flag.
© Jude Dippold, 2013
‘Tales,’ Green eyes
Whisper, elusive in
The fog that dresses
The trees in milk gowns.
‘The endless tales I could