jennythegenie

I live in a place filled with fantasies. They line walls, whispering, spilling over, into my brain, and the carpet. They push their imagery against one another, snuggled with new partners, their title characters kissing, against their will. Their spines are damaged from overuse, their edges are folding, their corners are soft and torn. Over loved. My friends contain whole worlds of earth and skies. People I've never seen. They lead me through cities and jungles, to inspiration.

O biro! You instrument of betrayal, Can't you extract the poems from my brain? The paper is staring at me, It should be staring at you. How can you ignore the eager notebook, Screaming for your gliding attention? Why do you want to play online? You can't do my writing there. Don't you want to spill your inky blackness? Quench the papers burning desire. Will you leave her frustrated too? You're just like all the others.

Ghost lights hover on the window, Glowing in my spreading dark eyes, Dancing over black hills and navy skies, Jumping the bumps in the road. My lips and eyes shine in the glass, Watching the inky landscape, Mouthing the words of music, That keep my world silent. I smile at my noiseless song, Pushing back the clamouring thoughts, That make my eyes outshine my lips, Wanting to stay in limbo.

After .... three years wonder .... shouldn't fill me .... (surely?) when you're .... smiling. I still ... flutter seeing ... your eyes waiting ... to touch. I grin...contact you pull...me in twisting...silly worries...vanish. Thumping..faster my heart..speeds at your touch..sending my chest..beating. I'm still.nervous every.time we greet the.first time. We meet.together.halfway. I love.you more.everyday.

The maths corridor was a narrow dingy  hall with a grey carpet and grey blue walls. A few of the lit panels in the ceiling were flickering, the bulbs close to the end of their lives. Kerry was sitting on one of the wide window ledges hunched over "The Alien's Child" an "animorph" book. It was a grey November afternoon and the large double doors which lead to the playground had been left open. Kerry tried to huddle into her coat, but she felt the fabric strain against her back and worried it might tear.  She zipped it up and hugged herself, glancing up at the clock to see how much longer she had to wait till her maths class. It was still anoth

My eyes follow the cracks in the ceiling. Black veins on clean white skin Some have been painted over The white emulsion is a scar. There is one long line It quivers around the built in wardrobes The line is an open wound It keeps growing, promising worse damage Lines crawl on paint, breaking plaster. Veil of dust over the kitchen table My father is not as good at home repairs as he thinks

An animal watches us in the dark A luminous eye glares through my window It pretends to be a spindly structure A sculpture stretching toward a glowing eye Yellow halo fans out against the dark In three rings around its orange orb Its glare pierces soft fabric with its glow Fingers of soft light shimmer across the walls Standing on its long body staring Shattering the dark so it can spy Its gaze filters into my darkness Its eye throbs through the veil and steals my dreams

I really know that you love me, When sorting through my laundry. You must love me, my hazel locks. You tolerate my smelly socks. You must love me. It's obvious. You put up with my grumpiness. I hope I show I love you though, When I'm taking out the bin. Making your lunch, I try to say I love you, in a sandwich thin. I try to show my love is so, While sneaking a few veggies in. I know I show my love this way, By putting cheese on everything. I hope you know my love is true. That's why I want to marry you.

Arthur Frends… my frends at the home they tell me i'm ecspert whatever that meens. Cars go by make me scared Mom seys it's cuz of the ax-i-dent – sumthing 'bout cars. Mom tells me stories   a man named Art like me. She pr'tends    he's me… Pretendin i'm him is fun that i went to school did good, like i waz…     smart or sumthin. He had frends, in skool Mom seys they miss him i aksed where he went. "Away."  i dun aks anymor' stories make her sad.

My mother is a boiler    roil boil boil whole evenings of it I call it walking the kettle     nightly exercise while she forgets cup after cup to the creak    of an arthritic mixer to the dryer-hump    of our laundry room. Alzheimer’s     the obvious joke isn’t funny to a senior. Instead I pass messages from the insulted environment Mom, working at the sink, throws compost. Her chair’s as clean as the pot— she doesn’t need to sit             to stop to walk the kettle.

"Fire is carbon  heated to luminescence"— so says the doctor-father. Meaningful to him     and to the man remembering but for the boy,      toasted orange in that light, words can't yet put out fire. Still small enough that flickering flames interest more than breasts or other hot things, he watches the Consumption,    logs taken bodily their essential greyness gusting moonward    (are those smokestains?) He's still not sure if it's a metaphor for life or death— never thought about it firestaring isn't thinking business but a chance t

A Saskatoon year is not symmetrical: it has five seasons familiar four— stumbling into one another awkward gropes toasting timeless acquaintance the interloper is grey and tan    a folded old woman    a stalk of straw in her gravel teeth. Limping, smiling and wet from between Winter’s supermodel thighs she stains white legs      damp cigarette butts and chokecherries      knotted in her grove of hair. Yet we smile snow-blind,     we only feel     her forehead warmth     her