In the beginning, there came nothing. Then came a memory. You can read it here
Image by Mae Mu
Ornaments, bars, neon
and people: by their useless regrets they have colorful streets and a grazing fever
Feelings of peace and security then take over, adding them to crowds
smoking outside restaurants
bleating, masturbating –
the orgasm like pastries sold during an execution
In the mornings sometimes I cry
but when the night comes we fuck on slides
–he strong, me greedy–
in a playground
as damned as his arms
when he’s away
These misplaced cravings for the divine
can become as addictive as shoplifting
The clenched me, my secret burning,
urges his growling, his strength,
We take eternity where we find it
If only I could feel the sun on his skin
lap it up off his neck
but I can’t even fantasize
being stranded on an island with him
without imagining the whole shipwreck
so I bury my wish under the loose swings
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It feels great to be Dodging the Rain again
Here comes streetlight
and me again
a lover’s cheap charms
all over her diary
for naked game
her throat moans deeper
my sliver of smile
how can she know
true love cuts
red is a singer
in vocal cords
to stain her dress
death is a river
to wash her away
my knife is fed
I feel them grow
Basilike Pappa is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. Her work has appeared on Intrinsick, Timeless Tales, Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics, Bones – Journal for Contemporary Haiku, Sonic Boom, and Visual Verse. She is a member of Sudden Denouement – A Global Divergent Literary Collective. Most of the time she can be found reading near a window in Greece.
Because the apartment on the middle floor reminds me of mine in Athens. You can read it here
(Image by Joelle Chmiel)
On Free Verse Revolution, with a strange kind of soup.
There was a man who had mosquito soup for dinner
I should have told him what it meant
I laughed instead; scared him away
I want to tell him I’m not the same
but sometimes I run after windswept crumbs –
the chase still alive under my skin
I want to finish that story where the rigor mortis of a major planet
dried the sea, left the fish flailing in the shallows;
I started it as we gin-fizzed against the yellow of the kitchen walls
(egg-and-lemon sauce, the kind I detest)
– I want to tell him what it meant, but it was in a dream, so it doesn’t matter
I was chemicals on top of everything else–
think of a smooth bandage over the present–
and he held on to a bag of old clothes (when afraid, stand still)
He was wearing them when his casual plan backfired underneath
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Being the woman your mother warned you about, on Heretics, Lovers and Madmen. I have some sisters too you should watch out for.
I am the woman your mother warned you about:
She and the other matriarchs exchanged recipes. Babies in arms, children tugging at their sleeves. High pitched squealing. The perfect detergent for spring cleaning.
I zoomed out.
Someone asked me something, I said ‘what?’ Then they exchanged glances.
– Isn’t the day hot, and could you beat the eggs?
– Sure, why not?
I beat the eggs and I was thinking the last time I did spring cleaning must have been summer because it was hot. Then someone came and brought me pot. That’s how I missed a spot on the window glasses.
I am the woman your mother warned you about:
When she told me ‘when you get pregnant,’ I said ‘I’m not taking any chances.’
‘Son, she’s cold. Chit-chat was like we spoke foreign languages. I have a feeling she’ll never bake a pie. She only paid attention when…
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Proud to be on Dodging The Rain today. Thank you, Neil Slevin!
Melinda stores memories inside chickens – uncaring birds.
Eats. Cleans. Makes a cup of tea.
Sitting by her window she knits long scarves. Hobbies are a good thing.
It all feels like calling home and speaking in a foreign accent, or like a strange cat sitting on her armchair.
Melinda used to have her rooms full of nightingales. Sometimes she flashed them at people. Well, she is only human.
But counting nightingales before they sing all their songs is a cheater.
It comes as a missed train, as rain inside the brain; as unequal exchange, torn page, minimum wage. It comes as derealization, depersonalization, as minding the gap but still getting your foot stuck in it; as varicose vein, chest pain, not so sweet martha lorraine. It comes as blue, to paint blue the heart; as human factor, x-factor, max factor. It comes as…
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