Alabastard
Candid Poetry About Real People
Your death is louder.
All hail the helling of bells, barrage of spinsterSpiking coffee with morphine, and no oneCan hear it—your death is louder—like lozenge,Louder like bullshit-banter-baculum-brat-buccina,Louder like sun, louder like you have been fawningFor breeding, like Tiny Dancer, louder like gorging onIrish spring soap, louder like deafness on theTown line of trust in Toronto
LOUDER
You are every phobia in a compulsive nihility
I hear you screaming and it’s louder, stiffRotten, rouge and alabaster tree spawn—
I have worshiped you into a coffin cinder,
Alabaster cradles, alabaster follicles, louder!,
Alabaster dresser drawers, unbleachedAlabaster worn out sheets, alabaster bath,L'eau de Mare, alabaster priming pills,Alabastard, you said it like I can’t hear you,love me like I don’t know it’s youHounding down my back and rearrangingMy books, turning on my television four timesA spirit feeding on aggravation
You are so loud I cannot hear myself falsify beliefremember routine pillsI cannot recite vernacular in my namedetermine if I am alive lie Leigh or a legendYour death is mine.About the Creator
Seneca Basoalto
I like bad words, old men, and heavy basslines
Background in the backstage music/movie scene
Iberian poet
Publications in England, Scotland, Australia, and USA through NAILED Magazine, Terror House Magazine, Utterance Journal, and many others
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More stories from Seneca Basoalto and writers in Poets and other communities.
Tart Smack
I keep bubblegum wrappers with notations, your vice villanellecherry pop and pancreas Polyjuice, an exchange of habitsand horror story whores emasculated by the way you tiptoearound the side of a wet pool, avoiding splinters and slipsof nipples with your bad knees bad vibes bad juju.
By Seneca Basoalto5 years ago in Poets
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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