Alice's Psychotic Sylvia Site

Catherine's Disease | Waltzing With Ghost Girl | AWOL | Waiting Room

anathematized
under clear, keen eyes
alluring hurt, midnight—
stretched design—
every picture a noxious sigh.
rose black
rose white
stained glass, flesh-
-tooth, vein.
violent breeds
dwell here.
"Oh, Dear.
Yes, you asked---
dozens of times, in fact."
Myriads of bloody stars
affixed above her halo
clipped wings
canescent thing.
your grandest didactic desires
are beyond curing or cursing.
So. Catherine thinks.
trench coat whisper
the sidewalks vision,
frozen hail on hair
bound ---
she begins her indecision.
over as before,
derision crucified.
the nadir of her life--
No. Catherine sinks.
ice clinks
in a water glass-
smog covers cement
for even the grass
dare not rise.
they have her---
without knowing it.
he continues
the bleakest of searches.
Catherine thinks.
star light
star bright
She seethingly perches---
plots---
pushes on---
dot.. dot.... dot......
a tap at the window
is nothing unexpected.
ivory arms are thrust
--lead into circle and cross.
Shes sacrificed
-lost.
an engraved bangle falls
golden to the floor.
Low. Catherine sinks...
below the masquerade
fitting quite well
into the oblivion
she has made.
condemning all,
she swore she knew-
Yes, dear Catherine,
you are through.

24 June 1999

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waltzing with ghost girl

one couldn’t possibly
guess how long
she has been there.

her skin is white
as winter trees.
her eyes are blacker
than concave screams-

a statuesque figure
more than not overlooked,
by-passed, yearning
hard for the Glory not given.

her crowned head is cradled
in those willowy hands.
yes. she is sovereign.
she reigns, reigns, and reigns.

at night her holey gown
billows. ease droppers think
it evening fog.
how wrong they are.

condescending bastards.
all colored bouquets, tossed away
browned, decayed—are hers---
transformed into sanguinary days.

their nothings. they’re nothings.
"what’s the difference?" ---
she moans in a low, low whisper.
one couldn’t guess it

or pull it from the Great Mother.
it’s knit of damned mankind.
she has inked their lives
onto her wings of blue topaz

and thoughts she shouldn’t think.
god, this is deep—undertow
opposition.
dualities.
oscillation.
dual personalities.
weeping- hah! that is long gone.
she dances alone, slowly
to the wildest fantasia

instrumented by shining wet leaves,
marble overlays smooth as night,
and the occasional specter
who begs for euthanasia.

it rains, rains, and rains.
droplets like jewels
affix themselves to her hair
and everywhere she strays.

no one descries, though-
no one knows she writes the truth
with water and feathers
from her fairy things:

Many posit and presume
when a bell quaintly rings,
an angel gets her wings.
Truly, truly with the ring of a bell
another soul rots in hell.

by the by – stretched out wide,
she tosses her wispy hair aside,
crosses her arms upon her chest
jovially pretending she might die.

it’s unsettling. inaccessible.
one couldn’t guess
(even if it were permissible.)
how long she has been there.

23 June 1999

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AWOL

late on cool spring nights
i amble about this teeny house
among items that shine ----
belying the nature of the beast.
moving, half-afraid - half-exhilarated
--------as a soldier creeping
on a raw white belly burgeoning
of sweet, archaic spice.
--------as a daughter weeping,
moving low --- allowing the fury
to vent out slowly....
ebbing into the sweet black air.
and the foreign beast sleeps
in her checkered den
in dream, i bet, prowling again.
for a few rare hours
the monster flourishing
in my deadened brain is cast away---
maybe downing another.
i don’t like where this leads.
you don’t like me.
i don’t like you mother.
it is imposed.
it is all obligation.
i aim at the words of your castigation
but there is no more ammunition.
--of the capture
i fight no more....
but for the present, in the dark
the now is suppressed
all undressed like a fired bullet.
bang. bang. bang.
i am out. i am open. i am unafraid.
the white flag waves
when the light dares to glow out.
my wretched past lives,
i’ve left behind------
i gaze out the windows,
overly clean things.
i lament the quiet--- the lack of stains—
all are unaware that i stare
wondering about tomorrows.
this war is over.

23 June 1999

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waiting room

cold gravity
pulls me to you---
on time.
one by one.
five others before—
sicker, of course.
i maneuver in teary
delusion-
displaying the piteous
little girl message.
too black.
too white.
no need to decide...
though you couldn’t
if you could.
irrelevant "it was nice meeting yous---"
between thirty-two years of
"she is still my girlfriend"
and "i need a manicure."
i will not comfort-
the talking box gibbering
of a walrus or snow fox.
i am here by accident
tapped by wintry forces
which refuse to let go.
lost closed long lids
blinking lashless
with the church lady’s every breath.
mine bloody, despondent, forced.
i utter answers half made up---
every morose word is heard
---- whirled wherever
decapitated in air.
the waves strengthen.
there is no formal diagnosis.
ivory, boxed, pulling
of raped dimensions
while i pretend you love me
like long, long ago.

24 June 1999

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