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POETRY: IIIIII   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
blunderbuss: the search of jackson o’malley   
 
in hell’s latrine,  
a mean bell tolls.  a man  
keeps hold his swelling soul  
wrapped in iron meat.   
defeat is all the siren  
seeks.  her smoldering lips –  his lining weak – slips  between his thighs.   
gripped, her owner cries  
delighted – a wallet to be  
slighted.  the bed will sag  again this night.   
 
 
motel cell: the life of sally lee   
 
before POETRY: III
in Literature Submissions
PROSE What Spies DoMy dad is a rock.  He is solid, he is powerful.  He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder.  He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion.  He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience.  He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show.  He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.   
 “He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lip PROSE What Spies Do
in Literature Submissions
The stalker speaks. PROSE.Every day I write him a note.   
"Hi, all I know about you is that you always take the cheese off the cheeseburger. Just wanted to say that you're great", then say "Nah, he'll think it's creepy to have someone watch him eat" and throw it away.   
I write one every morning, waiting to find the right one. Until then, I watch.   
I like the little things about people. Don't we all? Most fall in love with the big picture and then notice the details, which they might love or hate. Most become annoyed by these little details. I become obsessed.   
"Hi, all I know is that you love the existentialist movement, The stalker speaks. PROSE.
in Literature Submissions
The Sparrow meets the CityI did not believe                          in firmly webbed nests  that captured the sky                          as solid as ice.  I did not believe                          in death without rot,  the copses of ribs        & The Sparrow meets the City
in Literature Submissions
PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations  When she woke, a startling bird encased her vision, like a face pressed up too close. At first she thought she was still trapped in sleep, she blinked and blurred the figurine then hoisted herself up. Three centimeters in height, it was shaped by wire with a golden, almost skin like fiber wrapped tightly around its form. The bird, so detailed, she lowered herself to its height and peered at its beady eyes… Its intensely shaped beak, open, waiting. Tiny wings spread out, each feather visible, so real. It was perched, ready to escape. Clare plucked it off the stand and got ready for work.   
  The golden bir PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations
in Literature Submissions
POETRY - HushSnow from soot-licked skies rests            on frost-edged shadows.  Wind winds at the sill like a cat,            begging in. Bare soles lap at boards.   
 
A black jewel caws and flicks            its folded wings. It sidesteps,  eye on the frosted fields.            You spy the sunrise stretch,  sly, over the brown horizon        &nbs POETRY - Hush
in Literature Submissions
PoetryFirst Night   
-In night when colours all to black are cast-   
-We for the year to come may take-   
[Gabriel in a nearly bare room, some objects unlighted, talking at a window, all the people in it]   
Streets have been paved in gold for centuries on end.  Drag races have dusted the eyelashes of elves   In their haste to arrive at that which they might comprehend,  And the significance of the gilt is often seen spelled       In the haze of a blink from that next curling bend  As it tours a cockcrows spirit,       &nbs Poetry
in Literature Submissions
PROSE: the quiet loud of nightIn the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.  
 
You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breat PROSE: the quiet loud of night
in Literature Submissions
POETRY "I Spy"I spy   
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C.”  “Champagne.”  “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R.”  “Roses.”  “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with D.”  “Diamonds.”  “You’re good at this.”  I am.   
Your thoughts tick loud.  Your face of flattering smiles  Matches a sly voice of lies.  This is a game that runs through my veins  And my little eye is sharp.  
 
Don’t bother.  Taking me out,  Giving guilelessly,  
Cham POETRY "I Spy"
in Literature Submissions
With Clowns PROSE
in Literature Submissions
Beginning with M - POETRYSomething beginning with M   
Ladies! Quiet! If you'll look this way,  the diagram on the board explains  the raw, dirty process of extraction  of nylon from crude oil. Essentially  that thong you put on for the lads  is refined filth gripping your hips.  Turn to page twenty - put down that magazine,  look at me! I am not grading your handbags.  Pens down, everyone, and eyeliner pencils,  all eyes on the front. Try and focus  on the man with the outsize labcoat  robes of a magician. For my next trick   
picture me naked:  white flakes flurry like a powder-puff dis Beginning with M - POETRY
in Literature Submissions
Excuse Me Sir - POETRYThe doctor checked my eyeballs just  to see that I saw straight  then checked my throat with popsicles  that he already ate.   
And then he looted through my nose  and found that it was bare;  he hoped to find my boogies but  
I flicked them on his chair.   
And when the doctor checked my ears,  his eyes got rather wide.  He shrieked and looked at me and then  he looked right back inside!   
“It seems to me that in your ears,  I can't believe my eyes,  I spy a case of polka dots  
that's speckling the skies...  Though I just can’t believe Excuse Me Sir - POETRY
in Literature Submissions
Canvas - VISUALEarth is a canvas  a painted rare beauty  wonder and awe  
inspired at a glance  the Artist ordained  all colors be bright!  Displayed for all to see.  My upturned eyes blink, wink,  Bright white wisps race above  floating above my bright eyes.  Butterflies dance between flowers  flirt among yellow daisies  birds soar high above  
dancing among the trees  
like many colored jewels.  The valleys stretches before me  bright painted canvas. Many colored.  My roaming eyes see  Lazy willows swaying, drooping  
their branches into streams  The Artist Canvas - VISUAL
in Literature Submissions
Mission Impossible - POETRYA double agent in a world of intrigue,  I have been forced on by the responsibility of a people.  Having never known you before meeting you,  I have always thought you a spy of our most opposing enemy.  Today as I stand waltzing you in this beautiful forest of dreams,  Our walks reveals more misunderstandings than your simplest self.  A bland beauty behind clouds of bitterness,  I found a heaven where the only guilt of lies makes hard my failing heart. Mission Impossible - POETRY
in Literature Submissions
I SPY entry POETRYOne sheet of puff pastry lined with milk,  placed on the bottom of a thin based bowl.  Water poured in, till its filled to the brink.  The other sheet of pastry left ready to roll.   
A tool taken slowly from the oak wood drawer  and then raised lethargically to the organ of sight.  Into this was plunged the cold pewter skewer;  no vision but a very wholesome meal tonight  
 
Into water sploshed the peeper for the pie  Into freezer slipped the newly created dish  Then, egg glazed pastry placed on top to finish  Ice Pie with My little eye I SPY entry POETRY
in Literature Submissions
POETRY Lies "I Spy"Lies   
Hold on, slow down the storm  and let the snow fall into a  Delayed, mesmerizing descent  So details cannot be missed,  For each snowflake deserves to  Shine in the accusing spotlight.  Let the studious eyes trained  To spy the liar hiding behind  The fog of human ignorance  Examine every aspect of a  Frightened, mortal's art so as  To expose the skin-wearer;  The wolf in crimson fur of  Another and bestowed with a  Head of antlers stained with  The same blood dripping into  The earth from guilty fangs,  Or perhaps the human that  Lacks POETRY Lies "I Spy"
in Literature Submissions
PROSE - The Agent
in Literature Submissions
Friendship...POETRYOne last chance, one hope  I live or I die, your choice  Just pull the trigger Friendship...POETRY
in Literature Submissions
PROSE-The D'Karinae's ChoresRain knelt, her knees sinking silently into the marshy turf as she settled into a comfortable position. She doubted her wait would be too horribly long, but if need be she could remain here, motionless, until daybreak. There was no hurry.   
The grass near Rain’s knees rustled as a watersnake slid by, the nocturnal reptile slinking out to hunt. Rain stifled a yawn as she watched it slither away; the warm, soothing darkness of the swamp made drowsiness almost irresistible, now that she had finished with her initial scouting. In a way, she was too at home here—the warm, muggy air, the hum of insects, and the murky blackness PROSE-The D'Karinae's Chores
in Literature Submissions
POETRY: Etching a Tiny PulseThe chalk rubbing  reveals fingers, toes,  a bird-like eye: closed,   
like the dust-wings of a moth  
flickering within the walls  of a shadowy cave,  a heavy blotch beats. POETRY: Etching a Tiny Pulse
in Literature Submissions
POETRY: Something BadIn the orphanage where I was raised  Many a year ago  I was known as the Dark Angel  Of that small Catholic-run home.  The other children  Light and Fair,  Turned their heads from me  While I, the boy  Of colors black  Cried alone, so no one could see.  Yet one day, I was given hope  Someone wished to include me  In their game.  And I sat down  In the circle round  With all the other children.  And one said…   
“I spy  With my little eye  Something…  Bad.”   
And as I glanced around  Eager to win  Th POETRY: Something Bad
in Literature Submissions
Road games- P R O S E    “I spy something that is black.”      “Hmmm… a raven?”      “Nope.”      “How about a crow?”      “That’s the same thing as a raven.”      “No it’s not dear. They’re similar but not the same.”      “Whatever, just guess something else.”      “Alright. Is it a shadow?”      “Close, but no.”     & Road games- P R O S E
in Literature Submissions
PROSE: Night Vision   I had never met another of my kind before. I knew I was different forever- from the moment I became aware of myself onward, I was special. School doctors thought it was a disease; I knew it was a gift. I made a map of my city not with landmarks, but with scents and the noises I heard from houses in my crowded arrondissiment. I could see farther and sharper than anyone else in my family. When I got angry, things across the room shattered. I had no friends. People who didn't know me crossed the street to avoid passing me.     I lived with my grandfather in a flat in Paris. My parents had left me with him be PROSE: Night Vision
in Literature Submissions
They spy, PROSE‘What the hell are you doing here?!’   
‘I could ask the same thing to you.’   
Bourne remained silent.  Growling under his breath, it took all of Bond’s self-control to not throttle the man who stood in front of him.   
The game suddenly shifted slightly.  Suddenly it wasn’t about insults, wasn’t about out-witting the other.  It was about staying alive.   
Bond shifted his weight and began to walk about the room.  He moved slowly, as if Bourne was a wild animal, and sudden movements would set him off, but never breaking eye cont They spy, PROSE
in Literature Submissions
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