watercolor radio

Apoca-lips.

One hundred and four hours

after the declared state of red alert emergency

the internet finally went down.

I have heard the footsteps

of only three people 

in this town

and I am beginning to miss it.

I have raided the kitchen pantries 

of eight households

and am beginning to get hungry.

I have befriended three does

sauntering down the quiet streets,

the new burlesque walkers,

with spotted red apples

and am beginning to understand

their delicate language.

The sickness took this town quickly

like a quick blow to a soft head.

Now the police station sits 

like a rotting palisade

in front of us

I stand on the sidewalk

cement and splinters under my fingernails

the ring I have been wearing 

since I turned sixteen

is choking my finger like an obsolete shackle.

Since the day

my dog fell sick in the backyard after I let her out

I have hung four things around my neck:

my mother’s emerald ring, 

keys to the safe containing

my birth certificate,

a myriad family of nuts and bolts,

and all of the baby teeth

I found rotting in my mother’s jewelry box.

Since the day everyone ran away

from this town

I have avoided the term apocalypse.

Since you fell down the stairs 

yesterday morning

the jaundice setting in 

at the base of your neck

I have carried you

a total of fifteen blocks

past the barricaded emergency room

of the hospital,

collapsing under your weight

at the base of the dusty brick police station.

I can almost hear shrill, scared voices 

telling me to replace the mask over my mouth.

When I kiss your hair

your eyes roll back.

An eerie soul search.

I am reminded of the time I fainted

after they told me I could not catch this disease

I briefly considered hanging myself 

with parachute cord from the garage rafters anyway.

Your nailbeds are dented from gardening 

but they are also bloody with illness,

and I leave your hanging head at the cleanest block of sidewalk

rap the door to the station with my knuckles,

and retreat, bleeding, when there is nothing but angry quiet.

I return with a section of metal guardrail

and break three windows in frenzied abandon

walking the hallways inside as if it is an ancient Egyptian tomb.

Upon my return

I can do nothing but collapse next to you

and you can no longer hear me say I love you.

or Will you get me a glass of water.

When the yellow has crept up to your lips

and I have been sitting next to you on the sidewalk 

for three straight days of this

I finally laid down next to you

if a rescue mission came for us

I would look almost identical to you.

The weeds between the sidewalk blocks shudder

when I pick myself up,

pull off your boots

because they are much more rugged

than mine

and slowly stagger away from you.

I have watched many movies detailing 

what I would emotionally go through

if ever I was to experience the apocalypse

but none of them have told me what I should do

if this happened

so I walk away from this town 

and I will follow the river for weeks,

my face taut with oil and dried tears.

And when I reach the pass by the waterfalls

I catch sight of a woodpecker

completing a masterpiece

at the base of a pine tree.

- Kristen Tomanocy,
Intangible Collective. 

(Source: warpaintetiquette)

Posted 1 year ago

The first slam poet.

Let us pretend for a second

that I am the virgin

given to the Persian king

to be slaughtered after one night

I am a shank of lamb

on a golden cutting board

do I let him peek at my nipples

hard against the scratching cloth

he has given me to wear

do I prepare him a meal

let him devour it from the plate of my midriff

get drunk from the goblet of my palm

do I dance in front of his smirking smile

thighs loose and fragrant like

water recently unfrozen

do I feed into his fetish

allow my nose to bleed

onto his chest

when his knee catches it in bed

by accident

do I pretend my hair is not

growing gray with age

as my fifteen year old body

approaches midnight

and my death

do I imagine he is the boy I met

on the banks of the canal

gold medallions woven into his hair

youthful muscles overpowering

my slippery body

or do I give in

tell him my one thousand and one stories

lay my barren soul like

a gutted gazelle

on his open lap

my lifeblood

the fountain of my mouth

runs dry

will I ever have the strength

to speak these things to him

will I open my legs to him one last time

or will I forget

and when my father comes in the morning

with my shroud

will I be the limp fruit encased in it

tonight is the first night

I will quell his sex,

his murder,

with my words.

—Kristen Tomanocy,
Intangible Collective.

(Source: warpaintetiquette)

Posted 1 year ago — 11 notes