I'm a cool cat under the yellows and grays of the blaring horn of a sun and there's angels painted in blood, with lollipops stuck to their eyelids.

I am one of them, the one in the front leading them towards the junkie expressway, its corrupted and glossy, smudged with smoky liquid charcoal; induced and sedated.

The razorblades and needle points curdle up around the small girl, anticipating the drooled blood let trickle.

Her name was Angel, but she is lost to us, in the hell which swarms with stale, pale-painted zombies that suck at her veins for heroin.

I, on the other hand, I know her lock like the back of my hand.

I've got the key but my pussy's got teeth and I wouldn't want to come into your world of nothing.

At a restaurant there's sushi on the menu, sushi filling that's blood ribboned and shattered lips and coconut face paint; overflowing with crystal that's crushed with a complimentary straw, cut and raw.

Sounds like something I'd enjoy; only I don't like sushi much.

Ignorant, gold-chained men flaunt their teeth and their muscles like a prize.

'Go to hell' I say, 'Get the fuck out of my way'.

My feet left behind a trail of dripping candy to lure the kinder kiddies to our secret lipstick play place among the wall of scars and bruises.

I'll smile as I kneel.

I'll give them fragile, porcelain dolls with drips in their eyes and cracks in their fingers.

We're a family of cracked acid whores, blissfully loved, branded and brittle, but all in all, we're still in one piece.

*****

Black Widow

The black widow spider that lingers over my doorway glares at me,

would it crush from the simple throw of a book?

Would, at least, it go away?

She already took sandpaper to my voice box;

thinking it was the new one she bought at a junk market.

How the obituaries yearn to flatten you.

Born into a childproof world,

I was no child;

but a weapon:

ammo for the tongue,

aimed for the heart of my father.

A wicked grin above him,

there I was conceived:

among the sand mites in your sickly womb.

My life, a second chance as you tie strings to my fingertips.

In a box; a garbage parcel,

You placed a single pink ribbon; frayed and stained, upon my neck.

And you shipped me off to my night shaded closet,

where children flee from to the embracement of a mother's bed.

And I was devoured by boogeymen who lived there.

Did you even care?

When morning fell, I stumbled out to find

you treated yourself to new hair

with the remote in one hand and a martini glass in the other,

the spiders eggs hatched a new family

and I was left, twitching,

laminated in her web of lies.

*****

COLLINGWOOD PARK

[Alexandria/MT. Vernon, Virginia]

Riddled and rotten;

Riding alongside one another,

Reunited for the first time in what feels like ages ago.

She was feeling freshly clean in the frayed, pollen-polluted air of spring.

Just as a slick-sinned snake

She shed her first sticky sealed-skin: all sorry scrapes and scabbed scars,

She returned to the face of her never tiresome-torn life lover,

She runs to him

Fragile,

Sun-ripened,

And fallen a victim to sleep-deprivation...

Without intent, they've once again, managed to reclaim the title "Brooke and Megan":

The criminally insane insomniacs,

Ill-injured partners in crime: renewed.

They were ready to take that engraving step up to compromise with reality:

A grim-faced,

Frightening world once everything's shrunken down into

A little girl's hysteria.

She was all sunshine-shrouded-sunglasses that day,

Shy under the soiled, silk-shrined shade beneath trees that reach and grab, molesting and treading a trail:

A map that won't junk up his car's backseat,

Nor steal the remaining storage space in his black hole of a glove compartment.

She was the girl.

She was the girl he fell deeply in love with.

She devoured him in her love, and in the end,

She was devoured by her books and banter - all journals and jabber-jaded.

In the passengers seat of her lover's ratty old car,

She frantically focused on her daily dribble in drained diaries

that provided a sort of salvation

for an overlooked and anything-but-ordinary girl:

Her features frozen in a fueled bursting flood of human emotion.

All of the extremes thrown at her from every direction.

Moments in time suddenly spent:

Crying.

Laughing.

Screaming.

Mocking.

Surprised.

Apologizing.

Loving.

Hurting.

Then, finally just reflective, and rather…

Somber.

Simple, standard burnt out senses and generic brain signals entice her rum-spiked rage,

Rush to her paint-rinsed fingertips just before exploding into a rained passion,

Pouring emotion:

Her endless flow of anger,

Her form of release

Her emotion;

that which privately floods over the wear-and-tear pages of her never-ending journals, and her life-eternal notebooks.

She is numb, yet still subject to suffer her merciless ranting rage.

Blood-clotted blurs of tree arranged artistically in a stylish stain:

Streaming an array of female, color was thrown about carelessly;

fuscias, red ripened strawberry, and white wine.

Vividly vivacious trees varied among the black-burnt electricity stricken,

The Yellow-Bellied Lemon leafed buttercup trees,

The Alien Abstract lullaby, branched and blossomed, butter-basked kernels of freshly popped corn leaves,

The pre-pubescent Weeping Willow, whispering and wincing awake after a harsh, biting-cold winter,

The Bark Chipped Blanche Birch trees that drank and danced diabolic,

Cherry Trees decorated in lipstick-laminated kisses and icing glazed butterfly leaves;

Spray paint frosted chemical blush,

And naturally...

The more commonly traditional Van Gogh -esque paint-dripped collage of Granny Smith apples, limes, olives, and freshly plucked grapes, picked carefully off a grapevine from California Vineyards.

He was smiling simply because her presence alone mended the pains of his heartache.

The silence that they suffered was not awkward.

For their thought shattered barriers created by "politically correct" morality and judgmental, socially corrupt societies, in which we stood apart from.

Our souls intertwined, once the pupil of our eyes met one another's simultaneously,

We had a sensed mental connection:

An unspoken understanding and respect between two people, most family-craved individuals will not experience, with the exception of only a small number.

The seemingly insignificant, shocking few: are neither with luck or without it.

She was his blinding bulb of light,

Still shining bright in his life,

Leaving him a surreal-surrendered boy,

Paralyzed by the venom of her words,

Stuck strangely stunned.

They both were trapped in a twisted twightlight-zone time shifted twitch,

Stuck in their own chilly childhood,

Neither planned nor prepared to ball any of it up

and toss it away as trash. They trembled over thoughts of terrible memories that plagued their thoughts.

Hastily, they held each other through their tailored terror-tainted tears shared similarly the same way as a brother and sister would.

In her mind,

She became a just a paper doll princess within her own mental playground,

Peering out of the passenger seat window

At the straw-strewn plants residing in the swamped lily pad scattered duck pond,

Where small, sweet-smelling lilies and

Honey-suckles sprout sporadically.

*****

One by one, the days are slowly blistered.

My ears are flooding the cries of a thousand screams.

I'm left walking the cold pavement with no shoes on and my feet are not calloused and thus cut up.

I'm breaking things with my love and slowly everything falls from my fingers as ash falling from corpses burned.

I've become cancer with style,

I've perfected the art of corruption without purpose.

I'm cursed with a stubborn smile, A smile that's stone cold, letting through my hurt less.

I'm waiting for God's brilliant detox,

My important lesson, waiting learned

Though all I find are keys to broken locks,

And a voice, that echoes 'it's your turn'.

Reality is twisted. I'm sinking deep.

I'm taking all the wrong turns,

Opposite down a one-way street.

The clouds deceived me:

They were solid and quickly cracking,

When all I've known is suddenly fleeting,

I'm found alone, love still lacking.

The fun house mirrors are proving true.

I'm warped and bending, borrowed and fending.

I search the frostbitten windows for wasted love.

My teardrops a strewn,

Upon scattered leaves, I search to find them.

I'm running with my eyes tight and closed,

I'm feeling numb from head to toes,

To find that all those beautiful rainbows

Are really ugly and never-ending.

My rib is striking, the body's venom.

I'm living, justifies all I'm found ignoring.

Denial seals my pride:

The sin said to be most deadly,

The stitches ripped, they've come undone,

A pain that's deep, spreads ever so steady.

*****

Sin-sweet Scorpio slave; I'm seeking

his secret sex syringe injection

while our parents are in bed and sleeping

his love invades like an infection.

Waking in the mid-dawn hours,

awake I'm nestled within his arms,

in fear of scolding, he stirs and cowers,

moves to the floor and sets alarms.

Nearly halfway now across the country,

my heart throbs in longing pain,

mechanical i love him unconditionally,

My head hangs low and full of shame.

It is said you don't choose love,

it chooses you

If you love it: set it free above,

I am left here feeling blue.

Our new found tradition

Sex and a cigarette,

frozen, I lie numb in this condition.

His smile turns me violet

and I am his, without temptation.

A forbidden romance,

My love is his, now and forever,

I pray for yet another chance,

for us to always be together.

I dream of life: our own apartment

him by my side: I am complete,

My beautiful angel, his love from heaven has been sent,

without him, life is merely obsolete.

While driving around, he held my hand,

fingers clung, needing the other

His lover, I'm his biggest fan

his best friend, sister, and his mother.

Far away we'll wait however long it takes,

withholding tears, our hearts hurt day after day

our love is one that can't be faked.

We must trust our love will lead the way.

My pain is deep,

A lost love's sorrow

For now I sleep,

Until tomorrow.

*****

The Girl with Too Many Hearts

The girl with too many hearts hands out love like candy, Instinctively, she walks without direction: A prisoner in a blindfold, Seeking absolution. She has an addiction, Though not to a drug, But instead to love. When the flame of passion roars dull and cool, Her feelings extinguish To seek her shiny new jewel: One that will spark her heart's igniter. She is in love with love, Yet remains a fighter. While her heart belongs to you, Be sure there is another, A heart ready and new, Upon the production line. She's found herself a brand new lover, Stuck on repeat: A moment in time.

*****

THE GIRL WITH TWO FACES.

When a little girl's skin is one giant, surfacing bruise you'll find her masking herself in a sandpaper covering. She gives the raspy coating a new name, identity, and personality to compensate for her bruised fragility. Sandpaper skin burns and irritates those she is meeting for the first time, her bandaid bodyguard is a bitchy branding, designed for her protection. She is powerful. She is bold. She is beautiful. And she is proud. Others admire her apathetic reguard towards her crass, sometimes sadistic remarks to strangers. Her carefree ranting is easily accepted by those who meet her seeing it as an attractive, cute venting of rage that's become socially acceptable due to the face that anger is attributed. Smear on some red lipstick and instantly irrational thought becomes logical and obviously understandable. Her scratchy skinned exterior can come off cold, insensitive, selfish, and uncaring. She does what she wants, when she wants, how she wants. She says what she wants, when she wants, to whom she wants, whenever the fuck wants, without considering the consequences at all. People she meets must spark a splinter in her scarred heart. If they survive the initial burning bitterness, they find themselves at a roadblock of a branching dirt path. At the split, they'll find themselves having to make a deep-seeded decision: A true judgement call on the strength of their own character. They must decide whether to turn back and hopelessly head home or to take the pathway thats tattered and tangled; strewn and scattered. But if determined to walk the road unkown they'll walk with nly a shovel in one hand and a cigarette in the other. They'll find themselves digging the thorn scratched exterior and progressively gain in towards the bruised inner lining of her bones. The frayed skeletal system that structures the foundation of her femininity and her frantic fragility that's held together with dirt-stained bandages from the hospital. Only a menacing rare few come to help unravel her costume's pretty plastic pieces from her porcelain china doll-like statuesque. The face underneath the feathered masquerade mask is wide-eyed, tattooed and stuck with methamphetamine laced needles. She was scabbed and rug-burnt; scratched and scarred. The ones who truly cared for and wanted to know the lonely tear-dripped rag doll had insanities of their own, warped perceptions, mental instabilities, broken hearts and torn thoughts. They have experienced their own life traumas and the throbbing knife pin-pricked pain and glued tears, stale as spring-mildewed rain. Those few who find within, the will-power to crack her windshield aura will find a honey suckle garden with buttercups and poppy plants. She'll look at you with glittering genuity instead of empty expressions. She'll give her love neatly packaged, topped with a voluptuous bow thats flowing with white laced ribbon that mutates celebratory to a lavishing lady's offering. She had silently slain the slick saliva of her mouth as she placed her heart within the leafed lament of the leaky, liquid-lined palms of pill-popping loved ones she's planted in the depths of her dance-driven diaphram. She lets them flip up the famished sandpaper scraped skin flap to reveal an abstract surrealist reality - the ultimate oxymoron that makes up the artsy atoms in her genetic code that define antsy alleycat alienation: her arbitrary anthem.

*****

Vile Lies Disguise Boy's Vain Eyes.

[last words written for the disappointment known to be my "secret admirer" (0x2d)]

Once, you were beautiful. Twice, you're insane. Third: A daydream turned dreadful, And the fourth time just...lame. Playing heartless games with imaginative, numb girls, Climbing the ladder just to rule her world. The world you wouldn't [couldn't] even take, keeping it only for sadistic bait. I won't let your words poison my heart's slot five, laughing how existence was merely a stuttered lie. I look around me & realize how i'm better than you... Because, well... I work to make fantasy reality, where as you can only accept fantasy as reality never taking a step further, in fear you'll soil yourself in front of Dear, Ol' Mother. His writing turned sex-driven & public, not in a passionate or wonderful way, in a degrading...No. Desperate kinda way, And desperate is disgusting. I don't believe love is something to be teased & tossed tender around in cat & mouse games. His words: insulting and disrespectful while claiming a romance in a selfish amusement; An unintentional, non-committed enticement, translating to an immature lined, pathetic brand-name boxed humiliation. It was really all far more cruel than what the surfaces show. But i'm a malicious little girl: that's burning vindictive head to toe. Anticipating, the day you'll spill irony in the words "It's not like you can do anything about it, bitch." I'll be cackling at the lead in his head, as i'm digging his ditch.

*****

Copyright Megan Ireland - 2005

All Rights Reserved.

No duplication or use without express written consent of Megan Ireland.

Feel free to link to this page; notify D. Kilpatrick when doing so, please.