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  • David Mosley
    replied
    Welcome Charyli. I'm moving your post to the Enclave forum, which is where most people post their own creative work for other readers to review - or 'critique' as you put it - their stories/poems/etc.

    Leave a comment:


  • charyli
    started a topic Please critique!

    Please critique!

    Post Dated, Remembering Earth


    Issue #1
    Sleeping Foot

    Promenade is intervened

    By my bladder’s ego.

    Hollowing out

    Smoky lungs like a gourd,

    My Crystallized confessions

    Ash on table of strangers

    Who are bug-eyed,

    Judging me nearby.

    One is stranger than the rest.

    With his lighter waving in the air,

    He ignites a game of ‘Telephone’.

    His traveling inquiries,

    Hellos in prank calls,

    Return my limbs to their burial.

    I inch to preserve the toes

    In-between blades of tapping feet.

    Might I make it to the bathroom?

    In this entire din,

    I snatch a fistful

    Of matchbook phone numbers

    On napkins used for coasters

    For the cleanliness of my fanny,

    In an alley lonely as I.

    Cheeks burning

    (And this is why I will share with only you)

    From black coffee,

    cooling public acupuncture,

    As my body leaps to the floor

    In a heap of nonsense.

    The boys adjust black ties.

    All hands on me,Wrap bandages too tight Round’ neck.

    All female for me,March for inequality,To the bathroom mirror.

    Strangest you are,

    When dumping the ashtray

    And still sweeping my remains

    Under black boot.

    Ginger

    How Jessie Met Roxy

    Jessie’s First memory in Charyli, of Earth

    People’s lives intertwine daily. We live by momentary explorations of new faces limiting their souls with the paranoid casual conversation. The superficial propositions play chess and then forfeit, due to our partner’s rules of the game. Society brews a black tea with no honey, a therapeutic atmosphere consisting of egotistical opinions rehashing to strangers and common folk because it enthralls us. I often find myself on the rush similar to the speed of an animalistic sex drive while conversing with a new mind. I observe the eyes without confession. Popular drugged alterations from the unfamiliar territory the ignorant, active communicators charge immensely with fears of being discovered as plagiarized philosophers rather than new babies excited over the vast fields of technology, culture, and the arts. Life breaks the relaxation in our health with sharp eyes or a detour, a beeline in our boring schedules, so busy that we often carry our homes on our backs or in our cell phones like turtles on speed, until some wonderful muse suggests Feng Shui to our little cluttered shells. Hellos and goodbyes from customary faces only become familiar through a series of intrusions, reoccurring until they are embedded in our agendas. We grow from these new greetings. We free ourselves from time, the infinite cycle, when we give in to a new tone of a fresh voice or a disparate walk we haven’t seen yet.

    Like those women men leave their bodies for. Perhaps an exotic haircut, an unnatural thinness, or voluptuous curves does the trick? Boy’s eyes give halos to those curves. If only, If only, that girl could read a mute; right? Can you speak now? I cannot hear you. She touches her toes without freeing them. Don’t miss it! She walks slowly with one foot in front of the other on the velvet line at the grocery store. Her eyes smile. Her lip remains in place. Clicking of heels tread on your spine for a balance beam, she does. You are hoping for a bra strap to fall down one golden shoulder, for a laugh to spill over from some untold story. You bite your tongue and the warm blood mingles with the fire way up there, yet it’s boiling down below; it is rising ever so slowly, in tune with your heavy breathing. Or maybe she lives on stage, behind a name, masked before shaded eyes, but ‘she is good like anime and remains human’, you tell yourself, only yourself. You know where she’ll be. You refrain, still, from ‘making a stripper into a housewife’ and keeping that ass firm.

    Or like those men women become virgin again when he is so alien from the crowd he must be your personal angel. Or maybe he is horrid, beating down girls and boys with his manhood, pinching and contorting your pearl, without him budging from the desk. You dawdle on one foot now, needing his river to flow your way. Maybe he breaks the rules. The authority makes his bigger, more powerful. You wipe the mud off your halo. One finger dams the river, finding there are no panties, in fact you are wearing nothing at all and when awareness of sex is short even of one second, heat is already beading down your thighs. You know where to find him. The fire is shunned with one more finger and a wet dream, but cannot be extinguished. Here you remain parted from yourself again, begging to be raped, holding your curiosity in a mini skirt. You refuse to be the willing in a fantasy of sin.

    Then there are those creatures that exercise our fantasies, our practices, those scars we still scratch, those smells we lure, the beasts we feed, the flames we attempt to smother in our skirts, that phone number we keep under our beds in a shoe box. It is as if our souls are consumed in the shadows of demons we lose in our limited minds might be found in the eyes of some person on the other side of the greeting card aisle while we are obsessed over the notion that we must find the perfect birthday card for our neighbors and cannot believe it has already been a year. We go home to our families, our cats, our porno, our chat rooms, our romance novels, our video games, our homework. The person behind the birthday balloons doesn’t go home. In front of you in line he purchases six blades, some condoms, flaming Cheeto fries, a lighter, film, and some duct tape. They mock our narrow paths of education, family, and other ball and chains.

    Go ahead. How many stories can you write about the list of items in front of you? Which one is right?

    I once told my daughter love bites, referring to her missing father, yet is never a catch. Pain, lust, that runner’s high, was a charge in the opposing sex that was Billy. Another universal principle we leash with a word: Pain. Over a cup of coffee Billy and I once toyed with the idea of being swingers for a month and falling in love with our prey for thirty-one days plus leap year, but really doing it, then carving our broken hearts with a knife, with a drug, shaping a new love. This was ten years ago. My friend was an alcoholic. He was grungy and skinny with lack of proper nutrition didn’t speak right and carried his home in a backpack. I wanted to be that druggie without the potbelly, without the curses. I was fame back then, a hooker with everything in a dream, except myself. I was without myself. I wasn’t the one sleeping, so these weren’t my dreams, or my money. Perhaps pieces of me were left swimming in men’s balls, I thought, hoping herpes swam along with me. We fell in love not with a stranger, but with each other and did end up having to reshape our hearts. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. EPHESIANS 12 What about demons? I once believed this term as a label for the unexplainable, the unimaginable, the peripheral shadows that cause car accidents, the baby’s sudden death syndrome, cancer, and voices heard from the inside, voices heard from the outside. I was not a pagan, I was not a Christian. I was Ginger and inside was a neat little vacuum cleaning this world of reality. It was where I went when playing video games, when doing puzzles, when counting steps into familiar and alien hotel rooms, a suction being the ultimate abuse of mankind’s motor skills.I met my demon once. I saw my ghost, my evil spirit, in his disturbed appearance. Assuming I must have died the night before, perhaps losing conscience and slipping into a coma, muttering to myself the folly of the being, the credulity of him; quick jerks like narcolepsy alerted me from this state of mind that really is not from my mind at all. Yes, I confess having witnessed this young man hunched over his arm with a pocket knife, carving some words into his fine black skin. I was on vacation from work, if you could call it a vacation, a few hours south from home, in open-toe heels, sipping black coffee with my laptop open, working on my work, not at work. A local magazine hired me for their photographer after having a small column for a few years, since I graduated. The column consists of mainly reviews on entertainment and the pictures I was cropping on were those of an art gallery that just opened up in the area. They weren’t that great. It was the underground scene with kids in their early twenties that dropped out of school to drop acid and paint into the wee hours of the night. I was working on the shadings and borders of a series of paintings in a café near closing time. I wanted to finish, but something stole that time and took me to another.What stunned me was the posture. Posing erect and stiff without meditation, without crossed legs, without any reflexes at all, he was maybe bored. Fat drops of dark red human blood beaded down both wrists. Obviously he did not find this behavior odd. I determined the cool manner resulted from a newfound pleasure. The skin bore no scars, his eyes showed no shame or regret. They were smiling above sharp cheekbones. It startled me. I began to show the emotions for him. I tried to shake my stare from his open decadence of freedom. Pulling the light scarf tied around the neck up to my eyes, the visual intrusion of this colorful being prolonged and in my increasing pulse, managed to emphasize its presence. Yes, I gave this man the name ‘It’. My legs were crossed, tapping out of rhythm, my right arm searching for coffee blindly, knowing my cool, pasty hands must touch down. The limbs lacked my attention then. Cigarette remained ashing in it’s home, my fingertips traced out of line from the assumed belief in my invisibility, as the jump out of my cowardice was only recognized as boiling liquid numbing my thighs, crashing my computer, and the shatter of ceramic, bringing me down to an instinctual safety net I too often use to forget about relations to my own childhood this man has been giving me, for the past few, but only now joining this little jubilee of liberty.Face flushed, hot, and big. I was so big. This fool was bigger. I rose from the sticky mess on the table to fetch some paper towels from the ladies room. Subliminally I collected pieces of the coffee mug in my closed palms, holding loosely a slab savored in a napkin, slipping it in my pocket, not knowing my reasoning until later that night. My calves were cold with the touch of soaked paper napkins to them. I blushed in privacy of the clumsy accident. The pink tones in my cheeks reflected youth, something my daughter gave me. Reminiscing of a poem I wrote about her sweet, gentle smile. Poetry was something I knew nothing about; at least that was what I was always told. But here it is any ways.

    Who sneaks behind a door?

    A smile, guess who!

    And curls with pups

    Oh so secure?

    Places they go are shared

    And tells me of places that are true.

    I smile, to see the gift of youth

    Where smiles are quick and tears

    Are true.

    Mom

    I had given it to her for Valentines Day in a card. She had gotten upset with me and cried because she didn’t receive the doll she wanted, just a card.

    “Mommy, you’re always writing poems! Silly poems! Read me a story, instead!”

    So I did, sort of. I won’t go into that now. Those kinds of stories bring forth goofy mishaps.

    The sensible waking moment of this fleeting flashback found my eyes staring back from the kaleidoscope of a mirror, cracked and webbing outwards, sectioning my portrait. My limbs alive, drooping to my side, my left hand cradling the ceramic slab packaged in my pocket. I had a strange trance that this was a gift from the man, or a burden, if what turned me on was a use for it. It actually wasn’t me who used it in the end though, yet my hands did hold it. The knowledge of having it resting in a trusting place gave me comfort as if he were embracing me with warm, caring arms, rewarding me at having kept that little slab of ceramic a secret from the rest of the world. With my speculations racing, the face in front of me revealed my entire thirty-years on this planet, as it does so often. Judging the faces of people who come my way, I report to my peripheral dark corners, as their brows wrinkle, eyes dilate, pausing just a little too long at me, a stranger. Predictions of rudeness are no bother and I blame no one, for staring has never been a crime. The normality of ignorance is human nature, a mere lack of wisdom, proof that philosophy is a winding road and that my deformities are not the end of that road. Their eyes drifted from my fixed gaze, swept down my arms, then gawking without the bitten lip, and sometimes they are that shameless to bite their lips. Most just look away from my ten years of solitude with the cruel world in my cage with me, as I clawed and scraped at my body to let my soul back in. I always shied away from the shameless ones. I do not like them dictating my beauty in splotchy sin. For the most part I dress nun-like, adorned with bulgy sweaters, sleeved sundresses, thick gypsy bracelets, okay. Okay. Nun-like in a costume shop fronting the mirror with multi-colored scarves. Every brown patch would be enveloped in excusable attire for the season.

    Naked is an emotion. Naked is naked, I know this, but the emotion is much more important. The literacy of ‘naked’ is defined as“completely unclothed; nude,” for the first definition, that is. Yet the third definition is “without additions, disguises, etc; plain /the naked truth/”. This is in the Webster’s New World Dictionary, ten years ago. I looked it up last week when Mary (by the way, that’s my daughter) brought home a list of spelling words from school to write down the definitions. In relations to naked being an emotion, it is often used as embarrassment, shame, stripped of the senses, baring the self to that which the self is fearful of. I was stripped when averting eye contact pulled the curtains open, so this young man helped me not refrain from self consciousness and judgment of the naked truth in a naked woman, an attractive survivor, while putting madness in the wrong room.

    My own body disturbed the peace. I have dated many mentally stable yet also liberated men who have never seen my skin. A smile can hide these wounds. Smile is what I did. We smile for many reasons. We smile when we see babies, we smile when we laugh, we even smile when we cry, our faces twist up, our lips pull tight. They say we release endorphins when we smile. Well, the hardest smile is that which accompanies tears, and perhaps that is why we smile, and why crying is healthy. Even at funerals and on tax day. So I tend to only bare them when in solitude, in some foreign place, while on vacation.

    I am on vacation now.

    I will never see the man again. Yet I still stretched the short sleeves of my blouse further and further down my arms, as the material ripped. The ancient slashes on them woke in purples and blues from walking under screaming sunrays the past few days. Wonder if he saw them?

    I trusted his eyes not to stare. He is not of the ignorant, though he seems shameless like them. We both knew now we would never be alone again.

    The slashes received most of my stares. They were glowing beyond their years, reincarnated with potentiality, stripped of energy, rested. Maybe if they gaze long enough, blood will seep through my skin. Abstract art painted with opposite tones, naturally were my scars. I was satisfied. The inscriptions must have been grateful at my announcement of their abilities beyond society’s tags and labels, beyond what I read in the textbooks and self-help books. I grinned past capability and the endorphins exceeding physical confinement.

    I then opened up the little soap bottle and dipped my fingers in the pink bubbles. Running them through my hair, locking the strands together in thick chunks, I emptied the bottle. Giggling like a school girl, I then thought death will never strike a free woman. I tossed the bottle. I picked up the bottle and threw it at the mirror. My legs shook and my hands were fists for a few because nails cut into the palms. I started dry heaving, and lunged over the toilet; big yellow chunks flooded out of my nose and my mouth and somehow didn’t collect in my hair. My hair was down but something held it back. I quickly turned around. Need to get the hell out of here. The hell? The here? Differentiating between principles became personal and hell has a history. Here is merely the image. Which one should I claim?



    click here for part II


    http://www.scificharyli.com/store/1779879/page/868613
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