The Seamstress

Published by PSILoveYou Sitting at the table with needle and thread, I’m eyeing the pieces of you, cast like discarded clothing, throughout the room. I move from scrap to scrap, gathering muscle, sinew and bone, laying out the pattern of you in my mind. My tears run freely at the sight of self-destruction, hitching a... Continue Reading →

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Set in Stone

The sun broke bright through a scowl of clouds. Free to radiate, the sun imbues the circle of Sarsen stone with an ethereal glow. I graze my fingers over the stone and feel a thousand secrets whisper through my skin. "Aren't they amazing, Tom?" "What? Oh, uh, yeah." I look over my shoulder and sigh... Continue Reading →

Hungover

I gulped the sweet nectar drank deep, cup after cup soured tongue turned bathed in the sweet green of your ethylene glycol words. Resistence dissolved in the drunk fuzz of inebriation I lurched a heartfelt collision closed my eyes as I fell backwards and you casually stepped aside cushioned my landing with real rocks painted... Continue Reading →

Three million ~ Maggie Lawson

MORALITY PARK

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Her eyes scream in silence
‘neath cool desert air
razored pain writhes
like desperate prey
locked in her lioness teeth
as she carries it to her pride.

Her eight year old legs,
those quivering lambs,
submit to maternal bond,
held down and apart
as she is severed
from potential sin.

Fired metal
dams rivered blood
and quaking frame
soon labours
bereft of care.
Beneath fevered brow
infection of flesh
and culture
eat what razor left.

Pain and pride adopted
as unnatural twins
shadow her careful step
and her tomorrows,
her value determined
by what is gone
not what is left.

And three million
faceless sisters
will join her this year

as they make bloody angels
star-fished in sand.
©Copyright Maggie Lawson 2018

*Prevalence of FGM. It is estimated that more than 200 million girls and women alive today have undergone female genital mutilation in the countries where the practice is…

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Proudly Toxic ~ Maggie Lawson

My post from Morality Park

 

MORALITY PARK

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Today’s society is led by the nose like a fattened calf to slaughter. Integrity, empathy and character suffocate beneath layers of putrefying lard, the congealed apathy laid down by the willfully ignorant. That Legion of wanton disregard is a demagogue’s whore blinded by the spangle of ‘greatness’ without understanding their girth isn’t wealth but a belly swollen with the suppuration of its wounded people: victims of their corpulent egos and gluttonous lifestyles, and is wholly responsible for the decaying humanity and the stench it stitches to our everyday life.

The infection of “success” has us chasing the thin-hemmed skirts of the rich and vacuous whilst climbing on the backs of our most vulnerable: the mentally ill, poor, disenfranchised, and disabled. Unable to reach the perch of the elite we’ve added the middle class family to the fleshy mountain we climb just to gain a foothold.

We’re locked in a perpetual…

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Again

I watch as rain disrupts my chalked outline bit by bit they bite til I bleed in paved spaces and away I was here once on this pristine pavement now baptised and whole pocketed colour rolls between fingers and away they too grow tired of rewrites

Who Am I? – A.G. Diedericks

There are times when writing is so good, so purely powerful that you feel as though you’ve been slammed up against the wall and kissed within an inch of your life.
Words thrust into your mouth with such audacious fervour, arms pinned by unyielding art, body consumed by consummate crafting.
I surrender… You have me on my knees.

MORALITY PARK

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Self-proclaimed, self-aggrandizing
self-published, selling yourself
for a shot at infamy – you still have it in for me

Who am I?
you ask sheathed in traced
stanzas
words languished by voracious artifice
remixed for myopic consumers
I watch you milk death and brand it catharsis; canvassing for the masses

I am an intervention
I cook doubt like a junkie and drip it slowly..

into your marrow

I rip you away from your warm bed
and leave you stripped naked
on the side of the road; chalked
out of line
As I drain your ink & slip back down into the gutter
like a rat
blowing an inaudible whistle

Who am I?
I’m the Punkture gaping your ego
an aberrant- carved
out of failure & disappointment
I bask in rejection
while you prance around with
counterfeit applause

Who am I?
I’m the fucking TRUTH

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