Thornbell E-Book

Fern Stacy

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 108

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Thornbell does not require soft pats, though its scratches go deeper than those of cats. It can sing and move copper to rhythm, but once you have touched its revolutionary thorns, you will take the bull by its horns. Eye to eye, there will be no more hiding. Face your past; look through wounds and rip open scars in order to see what broke you the hardest. A collection of poems and short stories about the interplay of pain and pleasure, while being constantly on the run. Enjoy this piece of unhinged literature!

Leseprobe

this is the death

of modern

poetry

and the start

of a

new

era

- a threat

This might change

the world

Table of Contents

1. Sophistic sophomore

2. Clarisse

3. May I publish my intestines?

4. Obsession left by the deceased

5. The moon is a cheater

6. Snowtight

7. The sun is my teacher

8. Blind by my side, blinded by my sight

9. Pity Miss Rose

10. Read the room

11. Unspoken Kisses

12. The end – It is me he uses, blazing bruises

Every time he rings the bell,

Imaginary rose, palm swells.

Indivisible blood he sells and sells.

Red’s shadiest shade,

Male ladies getting laid.

Parisian color covers the sins,

Corpses bend and pick,

Tongue prances on candle wick.

Wicking affairs,

No, it isn’t fair,

So, they aimed to kill.

Honey there is not enough,

Skill to burst my back,

If you cannot even,

Hit hunchback’s humpback.

Bell ringer turns out to be,

Our siren singer,

Sinister Rose.

Once a week the farmers,

Bring up the courage,

To throw,

Tomatoes,

Our dear miss Rose,

Rips her jaw open, mangles its Strunk,

With fruit pulp she paints toe,

Emphasizes her inner hoe.

The Thornbell was the first thing to,

Touch mother earth in a way that is unholy,

Sacred thorns, foreign horns,

She nestles against the copper,

but she cannot choose the trauma it pierces.

Let the past bleed,

Let your parental issues breed

the unspoken.

May my body trigger trypophobia,

But please do not fill them with earrings, of those that view poetry,

The way they read Medication package insert,

And your genitals as an Airbnb.

You won’t see worthy paper; he may lend you his toilet paper.

We are not able to decide whether the bell kills.

Fattening on prolapse or sweating on mills?

I ask the day what happens if I leave

But end up staying after all.

Every single time,

The night dares me to run.

What ifs all over the path,

I willingly declined.

And now I’m wondering what would have happened,

If I had traded our daily showers,

For foreign flowers and Vegas rush hour

In which I am betting on my body,

But as I gamble, I’d write your name on token,

I would always miss the unspoken.

Sophistic sophomore

Sophistic sophomore

Slow like ADA, serenade.

Drown, luxury gown, legs up,

Squirt as high as flying tiger Sheryl,

As dark as her lipstick, shady shade.

Sixteen as I met you, dreamed a dream,

My prince charming was too late.

Pumpkin lady, shoes of glass,

Mouth was poisoned, toxic deem.

No Apples were eaten, higher class.

Was sick of you canceling dates,

Sophomores were made of blades.

Our tunnel now a musty hole,

The pockets empty, ending on your pole.

I hear the birds in cloudy Rhine,

I ‘ve never seen the devil cry,

So why ‘d you never shed a tear?

Nobody saw you falling on your knees.

And when the world is going down,

Your flowers slowly turning brown.

Princesa pretty, hands are cold,

Guess I was not a princess then.

Falling under, black burned gown.

Dripping royalty, take my crown.

I was young and you were old,

Too young to know, too old to cry.

My soul is empty, standing high,

Not a princess but ready to fly.

Suddenly the two years weren’t it,

So, I fell, Became sophistic.

The knowledge nobody had, except for me.

But knowledge is nothing,

if it was never written down,

Nor spoken out loud.

It was you, the one who spoke.

So, you used me, and I was quiet,

Not a fact because my lips were glued,

And my hands chained.

My math book empty, math for meth,

Teacher’s chalk snorted on my ass.

Pretty baby, baby blue,

Daddy’s ghost whispering boo.

I’m so scared, so sing me a song,

The song of your lost love in gas.

Blazing Bruises, oily Wheels,

Foreign prom dress, broken heels.

I hear the birds in cloudy Rhine,

I ‘ve never seen the devil cry,

So why ‘d you never shed a tear?

Nobody saw you falling on your knees.

And when the world is going down,

Your flowers slowly turning brown.

Princesa pretty, hands are cold,

Guess I was not a princess then.

Falling under, sad smeared clown,

Dripping royalty, take my crown.

I was young and you were old,

Too young to know, too old to cry.

My soul is empty, standing high,

Not a princess but ready to fly.

I'm not that a sophomore anymore, still craving the knowledge your lips seem to hide. But I just can’t kiss you the way you wish me to. I left. As I started rearranging my personality the moment I stepped into the bus, the luggage was still standing. My vessel of body was already driving through, but my soul had stayed sleeping on the grass in front of your house.

See you later, abnegator.

Clarisse

The drought we were in, the withered eyes of my children, food scarce, clothes musty, the thin worm in my apron—I believe with every fiber of my body, that every horse that had to be sacrificed will look down from above and congratulate us. With trumpets and harps playing, the way is near; my patience, however, is at an end. Oh Lord, Oh Lord, protect me, my spouse, and the offspring; give me guidance in heaven; send me a little house, wooden and cozy, with enough wine that keeps warm forever, the label golden; the wine of eternity, dark red and rosy.

Centuries after a bitch got born to burn after the house in which all these traumatized women were abused throughout several generations. I am here to tell her story before it even starts.

Down the rosy garden trail, the neighbors around used to watch little Clarisse fight with her garden, fascinating and fearless, she was picking up snails and kissing their shells, swinging rats by their tails. While others screamed at storms, Clarisse kissed the clouds and enjoyed the sparkle. She broke neck and toe, tussled her hair and peed standing up, she tried living as a grand firework sparkling under a night where every human being slept peacefully without getting interrupted. Her parents were busy with gardening but never let their daughter play with dirt. They loved dining but hated letting Clarisse cook. Therefore, Clarisse started simply not bothering, they would never care. As the winter washed its feet, her ginger locks turned straight, charcoaled strawberries she clearly mocked, she went to bed and with black hair she woke up, thinking that her life would improve in one fell swoop with a new her.

A her that would make her mother proud to formerly bear, an average person, So boring you'll want to rent her for your Insomnia, there was so much more to her but please be honest, would you rather start unpacking the biggest present or the heaviest, she could have been the next Amanpour but had not even managed to get her claws onto a local newspaper typewriter And now Clarisse has only one hour left to live, last meal replaced by a sound recorder, she decided to end it all, our sad sullen majesty was talking and talking how much she had suffered, and how being a successful author will never become true, the life that was robbed from her, how cruel the world was and that she had always wished that somebody would have saved her.

I was totally wrong; Clarisse is a bug I wouldn’t hesitate flinching.

The locked door starts to crisp and crack until somebody kicks it open with their pointy feet,

“Mother is it you? I knew you´d love me”.

Tall woman with fiery red hair, long legs and weaponizing heels enters and is now walking towards whining Clarisse.

“Why are you doing this sweetheart?”, she caresses Clarisse´s boring strands out of her eye space.

“I would like to pour my soul out before I die, so I can make a change”.

“But you could have done so much more, isn’t anger in you, rage against the world, so much grief and pain that it just makes you want to scream and cream until you will not feel anymore”.

“Why should I even be bad person?”, sinister rose was getting impatient.

“You will die either way so why die as a forgettable weirdo if you can get skinned as an iconic bitch, so everybody will kiss the tip of your red glossy shoes and although you are dead and that act could literally count in as necrophilia, you don’t care and you never cared anyway, the world will stay obsessed with you forever and they will print pic, cut out hole to thrill dick, into the picture of a dead hot glamorous woman, isn’t that how you want to die dear?”,

Clarisse’s answer would determine the way she outlives her yesterday’s self.

“Madam I am only sixteen years old and no… I want to die as an honest human being!” Lady in red seems neutral.

“Well then sweetheart I might have something to help you.”, Clarisse widens her eyes and grins.

Red handed lady walks closer, as her heel punches holes into the laminate and climbs onto the end of Clarisse´s bed while crawling towards loin, her smell pungent, Clarisse couldn’t move but was excited, red haired lady comes near and cuts her word, sticks scissor into throat and throws herself onto her chest, before stands up and presses heel onto the middle of her forehead, stabs a hole into her tired soul and stuffs herself into.

Clarisse starts levitating, her skin turns a pale sage green, hair red as her lipstick and a mole so seducing, that she could turn brick into horny stick. She looks dead, but has never felt more alive in her life, Clarisse was not Clarisse anymore, she turned into a ruthless cunt.

Later that day her parents went to visit her for the first time this year but found an empty bed and a window open, with kisses on her curtain and scars throughout her ceiling. She knew would turn her mother furious, that’s why she did it. Perhaps Clarisse did want to be a little redder, who knows?

I do.

She will return, I fear.

Bus stop

Not a home, will find soon.

Am waiting.

The voyeuristic moon

Watches.

Silly sun Sally

Swatches

Her warmth

In the north

I freeze and sit,

Temporary bed I knit.

I am waiting,

But a bus never came,

The bus stop I became.

Did you drown dear?

Christmas Carral,

Bloody ploughman apple.

Is it the way you heard your,

Own heart break,

Throughout paper walls,

And empty calls.

Holding in is hard,

The way you think,

That you need a green card,

In your own home,

Feels unreal.

The apples now stink,

Mezzanine bedroom,

Ginger predator almost groom,

Skinning him in silence,

Growling in our bodies,

Peeping into the hole,

Called easement,

That was him.

Why can ‘t you stay forever,

Whenever You tell me Bye ‘s,

the taste of beer in my eyes.

Release, are you scared of the

Decease, I am a dead fox,

You know.

Blooming on concrete.

Moon lips, sun lips.

Our Eclipse.

Clairvoy ant

And you know you got the power,

You know you got the looks.

You’re scared you will never,

Get offered societies hooks.

Like a shark you try to bite,

But are sardine.

You are small silly.

Outside might be nice

The outsiders might be nice.

It shouldn´t be such a crime to kiss me officer.

My lips are sealed like the gun pointing at my arched fingers,

We all know you like it deadly.

Filthy mind, one of a kind,

But when you pull trigger, I´m washing out your name.

Ashy tip, your lips fraternal twins,

Fragile Fraternity.

Ocean is a feeling, not the smell of a candle.

Taking my last breath beneath the unforgiving waves,

To hear whats frugale to see whats shackling,

And I know that the world revolves in between our palms

Bumping against each other.

Forbidden feelings, I see.

There to smile, wrinkles icy.

Eyes tea

My father and his daughter don’t know how

To approach.

Mothers other mother has been sleeping on the coach.

And I am lost between the lines,

Ignoring every single one of universes signs.

My mother and her son are hugging the dead,

Brother has been scared to enter his bed.

So, I’m ripping every piece of envy out of his turmoil.

If a kid succeeds in crawling some souls wish it to choke on oil.

They tear at our highs,

Compulsive endless lies.

Fuck it!

There has been lasting a slice of my relatives’ eyes.

I moan.

Soul grown,

In a rational life I am damned.

You may know

How to hit the spot.

Though

Building up a plot

In my head,

Is not your strength.