little girl blue v3

little girl blue come back to the dance.
the storms are all passing so now is the chance
to step up and smite all those calling u down,
soiling your cloak and denying your crown.
teach them the meaning of righteous regret.
invade their dreams and replace them with fret.
shine definitions of vengeance and ire.
come dance; they are ash; devoured by your fire

Little girl blue v4

Little girl blue with eyes of dusk
And wit skull dry, pierce like a tusk
Through every silly sad disguise.
unmask the charlatans. Their lies
Of soured honey drip from lips
Twist valentines to arrow tips.
And all the while they sing, 'adore.
My heart, my soul, tis yours!' Implore to bury one inside another.
Makes grave of one and corpse the other.
So wind up not gilded in cage.
Hath single passion and be that rage.

tap tap...(return of the girl who wasn't there)

the girl who wasn't there came back, tap, tap.
sitting there, she wasn't there with a puppy in her lap.
with the hood from her hoodie pulled down over her face,
tap, tap, in her lap, was no puppy in it's place

there was no wind whipping round
to spoon up rubbish from the ground.
the things she did, they couldn't charm
protecting puppy with walls of arms

so you see, as i said, once before, when i'd seen
she wasn't there,with no puppy, arms and charms
had never been...

...ye might be

Fair maiden, hear these words for they are wise.
Hide not your beauty in disguise.

Close not your roses away from eyes

to save for but one's single prize.

Don’t wither, tither nor lament with sighs.

Think not so low whilst oh so high.

But allow your glories to sing the skies

and by fellow gardeners ye might be surprised...

Gastronthropologist.

Gastronthropologist. Look it up. You won’t find it in any dictionary or any google search, but believe me, the do exist. Even with out any web presence whatsoever, they find each other. And they have formed a well-maintained ungroup or dis-society. I call it that because even though they are the only ones like themselves in the world, they are the most elitist of all elitists. They focus all of their mental powers and financial fortitude upon a most singular of passions. This is to completely accurately recreate all recipes specifically indigenous to their geographical origin. And I don’t mean they use Mexican rice in Mexican dishes. Ha! They’d scoff at such a concept. ‘Amateur clowns’ they’d call somebody who spoke of such. These are people who have wept openly at episodes of Iron Chef and consider “those sorts” to be culinary rapists.

Y’adonna found her way into this mis-collective after she found a hand written recipe in the back of a copy of Marqis De Sade’s ‘Justine’. The recipe had addresses of shops in and around France where the exact ingredients were to be purchased in order to make ‘THIS’ particular soup and not just a soup very similar to it.

She was intrigued by why somebody would go thru such trouble over soup. But as I said, she was intrigued; so she tried to make the soup. She headed off to her local whole foods and gathered ingredients. She sauntered home to finish out her meal. And when it was time she had a bowl…’not impressive’ was an understatement. She thought, …maybe there is something to getting fresher ingredients so she went to local farmers markets and tried again….still no magic.

‘What am I doing wrong?’ she pondered. Then she decided that she was going to try the soup the way she saw it in the book. She’d contact these addresses and see what could be done to get the soup worthy to be hand written in the back of a book of such repute. She began to research on the internet and soon found some of the ingredients easily and had them shipped to her from France. However some of the more rural addresses had no web locale and she had to begin communications via post. Over the course of time she found that there were other recipes like this and other people like her who sought out specific components for such foods. She began to network as best she could. Some people were more helpful than others. They told her how to recreate weather conditions for specific climates of the world and who to ask in order to get somebody to send her soil from a particular locale in order to grow her own spices or produce if it couldn't handle being shipped or if it was not in season or no longer produced by a certain grower. Over time she became well (rather widely) known in this un-group because, as u will often see with the ultra elite, these elitists were super specific in their tastes. Basque gastros only dealt with Basque recipes. Aleutian experts only dealt with Aleutian dishes. Yet Y’adonna so loved the experience that she sampled recipes from all over the world. And because of this she acquired the nickname “T.T.” For some it stood for ‘tourist tongue’; some for ‘taste-bud traveler’ and others it was even ‘tainted tongs.’ She didn't really care either way what she was called. She’d gotten over that when she was younger. Nobody ever pronounced her name correctly and so she was used to being called all sorts of things. In her opinion ‘T.T.’ was one of the more tame titles.  Ha, she thought, that could be another one… anyway it took years to get all of the ingredients together for that very first recipe she’d found hand written in that book. Some she had to have shipped at a certain time in order for them to arrive at her abode at the same time as other components and some things she had to grow on her own after having local soil and even local rain water bottled and shipped to her. But she finally had it all and in her post simmering. She had her favorite soup bowl and spoon also shipped from France for this most special of occasion. And when it was all cooked and all ready ready rich with butter, broth, and onions, the luscious, unctuous soup slithered down her throat. At last she had created ‘THIS’ particular soup and not just a soup very similar to it. At last she had tasted De Sade’s Justine soup and at last knew without a doubt that it had been worth…it…all.

Lustrate: interim - i, the breeze

standing, gazing, blinking away the sun and salt. i feel the cool waves rush across my arches dampening the silt between my toes then slide back out into the blue-green expanse. back again it rushes. this time to my ankles. i kneel, but there is no prayer that comes. i wish to sink, but the waves rush out as if they know. flat on my back now i feel whole.waves rush to my shoulders and then to my ears. i listen for their whispers,hopeful... but they won't console me. rush and slide again and again until i must hold my breath against the creeping advance. yet i lay there soaking in the sand; soaking in self awareness and soaking in the truth that neither this break nor the entire great wet that hurls it at this shore will ever be enough to wash away the things that have come to be. lady Macbeth got off easy. i fear i will not.

Lustrate:Chapter 1: Oh, What a Beautiful Day

Inhale, exhale, pain…

I have never been more aware of my body then I am right now.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I can tell you the exact circumference of my right pinkie toe and the depth of my left ear canal.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I can feel it all; everything and what I feel is…



Inhale, exhale, pain…



I can hear hushed voices and struggle to open my eyes…or rather use my eyelashes to drag away the bricks someone has left sitting on my pupils.

This was a mistake.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

Now my eyeballs hurt as well.

The pain has erased my ability to focus. So I zoom in, zoom out, zoom in until like grandpa’s hunting binoculars the images get less fuzzy.

I hear the beeps and see the white coats.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I think ‘hospital’. I must have thought it out loud because a taller white coat moved towards me and confirmed, “Yes Ms. Darwal, you are in a hospital.”

I ask, “Why?”

The coat begins again, “Well, I can tell you why you are here but now ‘why’ you are here.” He said ‘why’ differently each time.

“Any why.” I say.

“Simplest answer;” he states, “allergies.”



Inhale, exhale, pain…

“Hurts more than allergies.” I kinda gurgle out. The white coat chuckles. “funny?” I ask.

“No, not funny.” He apologizes, ”But you are becoming a medical legend Ms. Darwal. You are currently presenting symptoms of every non-lethal allergic reaction ever recorded by medicine. How you are not dead is, in itself, unfathomable. However, we do think that you are improving. You are no longer experiencing the projectile vomiting and diarrhea that you were earlier. The swelling of your eyes have lessened and the blisters on your palm and the bottoms of your feet have all stopped weeping.”

“Everything…all…pain” my voice is not much more than a grunting hiss at this point. I hoped he was able to hear the question through it all.

“yes, well…”he began as he flipped through the charts in his hand, “you do still currently have dry, oozing cracking skin and lesions covering about 97% of your body. So, yeah you might feel a little discomfort. So the less you move the better. Also there has been some hair loss as well I'm afraid.”

“Discomfort?” I ask. He begins to speak again, but all I know is…



Inhale, exhale, pain… …pass out.