It should be outlawed, this conffection of sinful pleasure, each one promising goodness, and wholesome satisfaction, "Better than sex" they say, close your eyes, and inhale the spoils of war, savoring each treasure.
They don't tell you the manufacturer is just a cold robot dispensing each one with its own ingredients; a dash of malice, a teaspoon of manipulations, a generous helping of illusions. shelved out, minus the nutrition information, or a surgeon gereral's warnings of unhealthy ramifications, No, it comes wrapped in strategically packaged boxes with each morsel perfectly aligned side by side, regimented in the same shapes, the same sizes, indecipherable from the one nestled next to it, and they line up ready for battle like an aberrant team of blood thirsty foxes; A Trimmed in gold catchy brand name like "Hey Sweetie" but a mascot of a dancing devil on its under belly.-what pretty boxes, marketing what would make Wonka's hairs stand on end.
Carefully shipped to us the consumer, who waits with loving arms and that taste of the closest thing to heaven, and though the stories and advertisements are alluring and seductive, with a guarantee of toe tingling sweetness, heartfelt orgasms, the actual product is only met with dissapointment when after the first bite of the very first one discovers the gallant reveries of a sugary endeavor or a milky creamy lover, was nothing more than a rumor...but maybe just that one..."another".
original work
by
monika veliz
THE SOURCE OF THE WOUND IS UNKOWN, ITS PRECISE TIME OF AFFLICTION IS NOTHING MORE THAN A BLACK OUT DATE TO ME, WHICH HAS EVER GROWN...AND IT COURSES, WITH A FEVERISH FLOW OF SOURCES, AND I WAIT FOR IMMINENT HEART FAILURE.
THE PAIN IS A PAINFUL HOPE FOR NOTHING IS MORE REASSURING THAN HOPELESSNESS. AND I WAIT, AND I PRAY, AND I CUSS, KICKING AND SCREAMING, FOR I WOULD TRULY LOVE NOTHING MORE THAN TO PISS ON THE WOUND, OR SUCK THE POISON FROM THIS, THE STEAD FAST ASCEND, STOPPING IT DEAD IN ITS TRACKS, SO THAT MY LIFE CAN ONCE AGAIN SALVAGE WHAT IS LEFT OF THIS BREATHING TREK.
IMAGINING WHAT THE MOMENT WILL BRING WHEN I FINALLY TASTE THE SALT AND IRON IN MY THROAT, THE GARGLING OF BLOOD THAT HAULTS ME FROM THOSE LAST REVOLATIONED-EPHIONIZED WORDS OF COMFORT TO THOSE THAT SURROUND ME, THOSE FLEETING MEMORIES OF LOVE, AND DEATH, AND THE DEATH OF LOVE, THOSE FEW CHANCES I HAD TO SHOW FORGIVENESS...AND INSTEAD SPAT AT.. "WOE THIS HEART FULL OF POISON"...
AND YET, I FEEL THE VENOM AS THOUGH IT IS A LIFE FORCE UNTO ITSELF, NODDING HIS HEAD, AND WINKING AT ME, ASSURING ME THAT THOUGH THE SOURCE OF ENTRY IS NOT KNOWN, THE SOURCE OF ITS POWER IS CIRCUMVENTED BY JUST THAT, A COMEDIC ERROR OF SELF-AWARENESS, AND LOSS OF CONTROL, A SPIRITUAL ENERVATION FUELED BY ANGER AND DEFEAT, SELF LOATHING, AND REGRET, THE ABILITY TO GRUDGE AGAINST MYSELF...RATHER THAN HEAL MYSELF.. WHILE A REPRIEVE IS FAR MORE TOXIC THAN THE LEATHAL SLITTHER THAT EATS AWAY AT ME MOMENT BY MOMENT...I FIND IT FAR EASIER TO LIE HERE, AND RAVAGE, AND TORMENT, ABEDDING THE VERY CULPRIT THAT STOPS ME FROM LIVING...ME.
ORIGINAL WORK
by
Monika Veliz
IT CAME FROM NO WHERE THIS CONNECTION OF SOULS AND MINDS, FROM A PLACE MAYBE THAT IS BEYOND OUR EARTHLY UNDERSTANDING. SUCH THINGS AS SHOOTING STARS. AND DANDILION BLOWING, CACULATING CHARTS, TO COMPLICATED FOR WORDS, AND TO FULL OF ACTIONS, THAT THERE IS NO PIN-POINTING SPECIFIC VERBS.
UNDERSTANDING WHEN THE OTHER IS MILES AWAY, WHEN TO-CALL, WHEN TO...REACT...WHEN TO...BE STILL AND LISTEN...WHEN TO HUG ME...AND LEAD ME...WHEN TO..HAVE FAITH THAT FOR MYSELF...THERE ARE SOMETHINGS ONLY I MUST SEE.
I LIKE TO BELIEVE WE MET ON A PLAIN BEFORE THIS ONE, WHERE WE SIGNED A BLOOD OATH, OR CARVED OUR NAMES IN SOME WILLOW TREE, ISOLATED IN A FOREST OF OAK..., WHERE PEOPLE KNEW OUR NAMES AS ONE OF THE SAME, AND AT NIGHT WE GATHERED UNDER STARS...AND WHISPERED IN A LANGUAGE KNOWN ONLY TO OURSLEVES...WHERE WE DREAMT OF ENDLESS BOUNDS OF FORTUNE, AND FAME
BUT WHO KNOWS SUCH REASONS, AND FATE WORKINGS , FOR WHEN THEY OCCUR, IT IS A BRAZEN LIGHT SHOW, VULGAR, AND DECADANT, ONE SO BALLSY, ITS AFTERMATH..IS THE BIRTH OF NEW FOUND FRIENDSHIPS, LOVE, AND SISTERHOOD.
THE SUN HAS BEAT ME DOWN, LIKE NEVER BEFORE, AND ALL THE WHILE I TRY TO KEEP MY COOL. TO STAND POISED AND PERFECT, GENTILE AND SOLOMN, FOR I AM THE PERFECT IMPERFECTION.
THE WINDS CAME THAT FALL NIGHT, AND REFRESHENED MY LIMBS, BRIEFLY BLOWING ME IN DIRECTIONS, THAT ARE NOT SEEN ON ANY MAP, AND YET I KEPT MY GROUND AND MY SOIL HELD FIRM. A TESTIMENT TO BEFIT ANY JURY, BUT IT DID NOT LAST...NO, IT DID NOT LAST A'TALL.
NO SWEAT FOR THE HARDLY WORKING, NO TEARS FOR THE LAUGHTER OF THE WICKED, I STAND... AND COOL...,AND GROUNDED. I BEAT WITH ANGER, AND GLOW WITH WITH HEARTH, I AM LIVING TO STAND, AND STANDING IS LIVING FOR ME. THE SUN IS MY ENEMY, AND MY FRIEND, AS I STAND ONLY FOR THE COMFORT OF HIS SHADOW.
A LITTLE "DIFFERENT" CHILD, COVERED IN OPPRESSION, WHO'S NIAEVE SOUL IS EXPLOITED FOR THE HARDLY...THE WICKED...THE LAUGHTER
MY SHADE IS COMING, WHERE I AM COOL ALL YEAR ROUND WHERE MY HEART CAN MEND AND MY PETALS OPEN CONTINOUSLY, MY FACE WILL LOVE THE SUN,...AND MY LEAVES WILL WELCOME HIM...THOUGH I WILL BE UNTOUCHABLE, GAURDED, AND SAFE...NO LONGER BURNED...
EVERGREEN WILL BE MY DREAMS AND I WILL BE HOME, ALL YEAR...MENDED, CONTINOUSLY...IN THE SUN..
original work
by
Monika Veliz.
I DO NOT PLAY AS SMOOTHLY AS I USED TO, SINCE HE STOPPED TOUCHING MY KEYS, TICKLING UP AND DOWN MY SPINE...MY LIFE IS ALOT LESS HARMONIOUS, NOW THAT I NO LONGER HEAR HIS WHISTLE, MY TUNE IS TENSE, MY SONG LESS JOYOUS, MY NOTES ARE FLAT. I DO NOT SING...ANYMORE.
I TEND TO BEVEL WHEN I SHOULD PLAY HIGH ABOUT THE OTHER INSTRUMENTS, WHEN MY NOTES SHOULD SOAR, AND MY PITCH ELONGATED, FOR HE STOPPED COMING TO PLAY ME LONG AGO...AND TO THE SADNESS OF THE CONCERT GOERS, I DO NOT SING...ANYMORE
A MIDAS TOUCH, THAT PIANO TUNER, WHO COULD WIND ME, AND RUN ME SMOOTHER THAN A BABY GRAND, IN THE PALM OF GIANTS, WHOM BY HIS OWN VOICE MADE ME FLOAT ABOVE AN OCEAN OF HARD GRAIN SAND. WHO TAUGHT ME TO PUT IT IN PERFECT TIME, MY OPUS EVER ROARED, MY CONCERTOS EVEN SWEETER, AND NOW...HE IS GONE...THAT PIANO TUNER, AND I...DO...DO NOT...SING...ANYMORE.
original work
by
Monika Veliz
The rain falls and the world must shatter. Trust me, a little drizzle is not for the weak stomach, the easy fainter, nor the weak hearted.
It took me watching you leave to see the cumulus accumulating, the darkness brightning, the vane swinging, my heart and the storm harmoniously assembling.
It took me to feel the ole tears wash o'er my body, and the wind howling to know you were away, and blowing,.. the eye of the storm in me, and it stacks and it stacks, and all the while I stood there, sunflower in one hand, and a dry day dimming in the other, while my smile; it just kept on glowing. "He'll be back, He'll be back".
It took your indefinite absence to make me stand there drenched from eyelashes, down to the soggy cuffs of my sleeve, the beads running relays single file down my mane, the salt and sulfer disolving in fibers and on a cooperative mission to leave a stain.
It took the fog to roll past my ankles, and the mud to sink me deep to realize the hope of your return, and the fact of you never to- had already confided a repore-much deeper-a life long pact.
So thats what it takes to stand and wet, shivering and wait, vigilant and undarted-but importantly it takes someone not for the weak stomach, an easy fainter, nor the weak hearted.
original work
by
Monika Veliz
I haven't found it yet, the verse that well suits you. I start-"Jason"..and then I loose it-"You make me"..and then its robbed-"Fuck you"..and then a blank; Waded note sheets, tears that make the ink run, another ciggarette burns to the filter, but it doesn't come.
It's stuck there on the last petal, relentless in the persuit to hang on, absorbing sun in it's on survival tactics, punishing me, with chewed erasers, gloomy movements, in an ocean of happy moments -"Jason"...and then I loose it..."you make me"...and then its robbed..."Fuck you"...and then a blank.
Bare trees this time of year, but window watching won't lend me a title, snow melting won't uncover the next line, and staring at the coffemate won't give me my poignant and moral ending-"Jason"...and then I loose it-"You make me"...and then its robbed.."Fuck you"...and then a blank.
I have to turn off the t.v. because everyone has your eyes, but I am missing lines, I refuse to look behind me in the mirror, because a reflection of doing something to bond with you will only haunt my skin and my life until the day I die...and yet I cast a stone in that pond hoping for a ripple of rhymes. but it only splashes the back of my neck with wet colored lime.
I cannot love because the words do not come, I cannot write because my love stalls, and my mind is bricked by Hemingway, and Nizchie, safe spaces for writer's block on the run; a hobo's tote; this pen, and an empty train car; is this paper which easily displaces the rythmic whistling of a stanza fit for you.
Lying in bed with the same petal smirking at me. Night after night hanging there begging to be written about, sang about, when all I do is think about, pray about, dig about, cry about, laugh about, stump about, toss about, when for you all I want is to write about.
I try to word you, grocery lists of flaws, and nothing hits home, a lost poem who has wandered wayward west, and forgot about me.. No syllables, for me to stretch, no puncuations to excite on, just wasted paper and volumes of ink, ancient voicemales and sweet grandfather texts, won't courtesy me a head start, just unfair rambling and unjust marks. what about me?-"Jason"... and then I loose it- "You make me"....and then its robbed.."Fuck you"...and then a blank.
original work
by
Monika Veliz