She conceives words as they follow. Military soldiers conform to order.

Dissident few stutter in a withheld, race identity, chalk circle.

Her brain won’t allow her to move on.

Lamenting for  a trusted source.

until then,

Life halts.

Collapses onto hot tarmac.

 Too tired to alter.

Melt her heart.

Resuscitate the breathe that gives her corpse a reason to impart

A post

worthy

For a creative outlet,

Her own personal work of art.

Hands raking  through her hair. Grip  at the sides, pulls out a chunk,

Its cool,

She’s dating an alopecia hunk.

This funk makes junk.

Eyeball sockets sunk.

Maybe,

It would be better if she didn’t care if the words weren’t her own.

Maybe ,

It wouldn’t matter if the characters  didn’t continue to harass her.

Calling for their story to be heard.

Multiple attempts. She can’t cut out cardboard citizens.

Maybe in an empty space, yes.

Verbatim theatre could work.

She submits  to an elusive entity.

Virtual paper work-enough to bag a colostomy.

Not been on here much.

The guilt makes her turn her head away.

She gets it,

She needs to reciprocate.

Sincerest apologies for not being present.

She’s surfing the web.

Googling data  analysis and Lady bosses fine tuning their hold on her own grip.

She prefers to lie down  on green pastures than make love, on a bed of  green bills any day!

Unfortunately, life says she has to pay in paper too  to make some headway.

It’s all right. It will pass.

Shivering from the inside. Lack of carbon dioxide.

Waiting for the critic to report how much recovery time she needs before Muse Goddess ups and leaves.

It’s the look of a person. Shrivelled  into crass.

train

Thought-rhyming is a pain in her  ass.

She’s laying it down in quick dry cement.

She’s  empathetic,

she knows we all want to be that portrait

Well.. hung.

She’s a portrait too.

Has her needs

Open your eyes-reach out to touch her.

These layers of skin hide organs, bones ,

And a heart so tense-all it can do is wheeze.

“This is me. I can’t deny it.”

We all have a life.

Hers has become a familiar rendezvous with Alien Jackson sporting a mullet.

What does it matter if characters are Black, White or Hispanic?

Social realism settling on common ground upon its release.

Not for an escapist’s  palate.

What is the state of  theatrical politics, on the horizon, beyond that place we call-

a future?

Statement.

Not even two Bonds can be saved.

Edwardian era

high necklines

Pearl earrings engraved.

Cavities,

Her gums are in recession.

Blame the bank and the Tories.

Her feminist views will place blame on those next in succession.

Watermelon-shaped breasts

One larger – hangs limply from her chest.

Commit a mastectomy on  her femininity

Humans fight terminal illness, homelessness…

How dare she think her position is dire.

Utter profanity.

Disbelief that her renegade words  follow in a Capitalist order.

Letters appear

She falls onto her  knees,

Thanks Ashanti for her daughters.

Time to shove a half pill down some pussies throat.

Its nasty ,

Its dirty,

Doubts whether deep throat works

She’s trying to  stay afloat.

Her illness-the chronic versus the opposite divide

Stereotyped bullshit

It’s her personal narrative that finds her  margined between this blank space on each side.

Calm and serene.

A  mother is  reborn.

Lost for 3 days — late – couldn’t rise,

Her mind was indeed full of scorn.

Today, she waits,

Wrings out her anxieties.

Maybe new teeth will  win her  virtual friends.

Give her more appraising  likes

Maybe, they will finally see that she is real,

vulnerable ,

rearranging her mask-unsure of what reflects back at her multiple ‘Me’s’ 

Discombobulated

Her reflection is divided  into  pieces.

Can’t fathom out that there is a whole entire being  to examine

Jigsaw puzzle unresolved ,

yet again  crippled to her knees.

No prayer.

Fervent  sweeping up of  shattered glass.

For a figment of a second she saw an outline

Perfectly crystallised.

Stories march in protest – for plot out lines, dramatic structure, scenes, reveal characters in lace

Just enough exposure  to show.

Three more weeks, one year down-more time for unadulterated fun.

If you don’t hear from her,

Now she weeps every night  into  a whisky soaked bun.

It’s a metaphor.

Let go and melt the sun.

Cool down its temper.   Versailles gardens make her think of France cut into a jambon quarter.

Carry on till the end.

All the books say she ought to.

Humming a song

Doing her  thing.

A mere whiff of failure invokes convulsions from within.

Weary, purged…

‘Write for myself ‘

Truth , integrity and courage is the only way she will let herself be heard.

If you can’t accept her-carry on peeking over at her life, not mentioning if cuckoo finally flew.

One day, you won’t be able to tighten the Ids screw.

*Inspired by a kish kash,  Mish mash of nerve endings and beginnings