Inspiration

What makes the writer pick up the pen?

How does it begin?

By discipline? An endocrine?

A whim, a whisper in the rain? A pleasure, a pain?


What does a writer do when writing has left the realm of its desire to acquire loneliness and fashion becomes a lack of passion for the light is night and eyes cannot see the path of the pathetic, a jagged little pill, a diuretic.

Branches snap underfoot as the mind fills with soot, like a chimney sweep in the deep darkest carcinogen blinding like hallucinogen.                                                        

But could even the master  clean this disaster?
                                                   
Send me a London Fire I scream in the char or a drink at the bar, my  mind is lost in scatter God stop the clatter that  evades my..

InSpIrAtIoN.

Flogged and Hog Tied

Like a noose snuggling round my windpipe after I've stepped off the chair of despair...used and abused and not even fused for what is a slave anyway? Someone to be beaten then eaten, flattered than battered in steel rope binding intertwining paying for dining in the dim dew of day lilies licking the wounds of puss and disgust as I decay like rust among the dragonflies with ripped off wings once kings, only to sing a sad lullaby of reaping a reward of discord when blood spatter matters and welts wash the wicked flesh and that mesh that feels the chain beating  like rain then the hogs squeal at the latest appeal....taking advantage of disadvantage and weakness won't win the Preakness even with fancy hats and mint juleps, on my knees planting tulips, for once  a slave always a slave longing for the One who won't mind, loosing the bind. Besides, who needs a glass slipper when you have the big dipper and cherries only madder in the moonlight.

What Was of Me

A magnificent wind ripping through my brain cells, if any were any at all, even the angels did fall but it's not fall at all. Fresh flowers in bloom, to bandage the gloom that pulses through even the slightest unimportant single-celled organism sending orgasmic thoughts foreboding, corroding my gray matter, a splatter against my soul, I search for a mole, is it even me in the end? A foe? A friend?

Vanity or sanity oxidizing..mesmerizing from a daydream or is it an illusion? An ocular delusion? My ideas purge with magnetic repulsion, a solvent or emulsion, or has my very sanity taken a pathological flavor? A lick of honey, the tongue doth savor.

I beg for the sifter, go get the drifter, in the rye or is he just a sty in my eye... for it's time to sift the phantoms from physical reality, Dying from depravity.

A diversion, conversion squishing me into the box, the flock, herding us into huts of the same color, no bread, no butter, pumping me full of berm not sperm making but breaking forever....

...what was of me.


by dena mckinnon

Computer Woes

Away from the keyboard for a time not forgotten ...why must these machines hate me so? Hopefully I'll have a computer again soon!

~Peace Out~

The Night

Choking on a splinter in the night...the plight...I need to write like a fighter needs to fight, but my computer electronically decomposes when my insides are twisted like muscodine grape vines strangling a hundred year old live oak..the irony in the name when at a hundred it's so close to death.

If only I could sleep, not weep a wound into velvety blood, running o'er, stop the Goddamn flood. Weary and weak, the sunlight is bleak in....

...the night.

Sometimes

Sometimes....I miss him.

A Weed In The Wind A Friend & The End

Fickle and free, I look in the mirror and think...when did it become so aesthetically fucking cool to look so damn disheveled and careless? Not dirty, but messy. Disheveled and right at home in a home where nothing stays in its place not even me. Flighty and flowing like a  breeze or early spring rain spattering from the sky into a puddle that runs into a million little rivers down in the earth only to be the catalyst that turns death to life, springing forth like time lapse photography verdant vegetation that I may become the beautiful weed in someone's garden if only for a certain time until the weed is replaced by a cunning rose bush covered in red budding blooms like velvety blood in a flood...

....but the weed was a seed and the rose has thorns. 

So the little weed goes back to a seed and drifts in the wind until it finds another special place to bloom where there's plenty of room and the smile of a friend means a time to begin and life starts allover but with each blossom and seed the weed never forgets he who smiled upon her that time in a bottle where life was a throttle...and it doesn't hurt anymore for when she looks at a rose she knows he's better off lest he feel the thorn.