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HomunculusLittle man I made
flushed in the warmth
of a horse’s womb
I fed you blood.
My child, forty weeks
growing, mandrake root
at first transparent
when you press
against the glass
through your lens I
pry. Little man
inside my brain
with fresh eyes
self. Am I you
you, no one
a foreign face?
Furtively you approach
me, lay a finger
on your lips
shiny with rain
Batman bluesBatman flips through
security guard ads. Tonight
the boys in the hood
are sticking each other
for trainers. They
don’t need flash-bang
grenades, just a hiding.
The Joker’s stayed
clean. He’s got
a wife and kids now.
Batman’s still single.
If The Joker can wed ...
I’m not gay; I’m
depressed, Batman says.
they only light the sky
with his sign
to promote Batman dolls.
Sales are modest.
And Wayne Enterprises
What the hell.
A man can upgrade
his suit just so often.
Like a spent wave
the fury which kept him
up at night breaks;
barely a ripple.
Manchester PalaceTo We Are The Champions our hosts stride
onstage, their grins inflated by plasma screens.
I grip my iPad, member of a hi-tech strain,
beside me a grizzled note-penning scribe,
and Facebook like a fox over-grooming
a wound through workshop after workshop.
Wine. Babble. At the post-dinner disco
someone turns fifty, this is greeted with stoic
applause, and no one needs to breathe into a bag.
Fancifully frocked women fan the dance floor
while the men in new jeans nod, or gape
at their dark beer. Derek,
who will remind us how hard we partied
in his plenary speech, is on the phone to his daughter.
A few couples slope away to share best practice.
Out on the airy empty streets, its Victorian
red brick in shadow, Manchester.
We depart like birds. Pendolino
through sparse, unkempt countryside.
A fatality at Lichfield Trent Valley
stretches the journey, and I swear
an end to conferences, as I did last year.
Pulling into Euston, lanyard-less, blue, sun.
The FoxThere’s a fox on the lawn.
Dad, shoulders bunched,
is brewing tea, rings
the spoon on the cup. Yes?
The fox starts, stirs
onto three legs. The fourth
limb it carries high, lame,
perhaps clipped by a car.
I had seen one with mange
years ago when I lived here,
left bread and jam for it.
It’s injured, I tell him,
Would a vet take it?
Coming to gape redly
at me, I’ve got troubles
of my own, he says.
Don’t look, it’s distressing.
From the fir trees’ shadow
the fox dips its head
into a pool of sunshine,
shuts its tawny eyes,
basks, its muzzle smiling.
The FlipThis is what we’re going to do.
I’m going to flip a coin –
heads I hate, tails I let it go.
You made my name mud.
I’m going to flip a coin.
You should have warned me.
You made my name mud
and somebody has to pay.
You should have warned me.
I walked into a war zone
and somebody has to pay.
I want to forgive you but
I walked into a war zone.
Heads I hate, tails I let it go;
I want to forgive you but
this is what we’re going to do.
TribeFor days we’d shadowed the slender skyline,
dense in numbers, sinuous-limbed, sniffing
the spiced soil to find the small game. We ran
it down, shamed it to its knees; a super-gang,
all good carnivores, group-hearted we thrilled
to hunt. No one troubled us. Best quit our turf,
we’d send out our young brethren to whisper,
or something bad might happen. Till one of us,
entranced by a strange girl, forgot the status
and the pack, of his own will lingered easy
with her, strung garlands of violet leaves,
and stirred in our churning bodies the doubt
there might be other pickings, other paths.
We surrounded him and tore his throat out.
MaskShe wears a mask like it’s nothing.
Sometimes I forget it was made by demons.
I forget there’s a person living behind it.
Bridge ClosedIn the city of spires
thrust upward through the body of cloud
a piercing spike of adrenalin,
as the wind fondly ruffles her hair,
doesn't stop her from jumping up.
Reaching to be seen or saved,
by a city that blinks and misses her -
a temporary peak on the skyline.
Doesn't stop her from slamming
into the steel slashes
of the trainline below.
Even the most beautiful places
to those blinded by the inside-out-agony
of breathing against their will.
The city of spires remember her
as the cause for a bridge closed
on a Sunday.
Poem for My 2nd Semester English Teacher(Short v.)You stapled these words to the page.
Like a modern day tyrant,
You denied them the little humanity
You trapped their souls into
And threw them to the curb,
I understand that certain things
Should be left Inhuman
But we even give hurricanes names.
You taught us to separate the person from the art,
But if the art is about that person, you can’t pull them apart
FlamesThere are flames where
his head should be -
a poem left in the fireplace,
a dressing gown, a pipe,
forty pieces of silver.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible.
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stones on the battlefield,
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
a love poemlike a dictionary ripe
with salted, sun spotted
words that emanate power
and splendor, i am unable
to describe you.
Raspy Hill"I don't quite feel like myself."
I haven't for a while now.
My mind seems displaced,
Like it's wandered too far away.
"I've been having strange dreams lately."
Images of strange creatures dance in my sleep.
I don't know them but I know they are malicious.
What do they want?
"But now you're here and I'll make you feel right at home."
My saviour, my protector.
You'll guard me from this evil.
"Welcome to Raspy Hill."
This is my hell.
And you'll join me.
I'll make sure of it.
"Enjoy your stay."
FriendshipFriendship is a tapestry
Woven through the years
With threads of joy and laughter
Happiness and tears
It's a work of art so priceless
It's shared by a precious few
Yet so easily created
By a loving friend like you
each one of us carries cemeteries beneath our skinyou are not the only one
to walk like there are
who looks both ways
before crossing the road
"knew a girl who";
you are alive
and you will experience
hurt, and you will
be so thankful
for every painful breath you take
because it's better than when
everything goes quiet
and all you feel is exhaustion.
there is more than just
one cold snap
before you enter
the winter of your life.
there are spells
of sadness and rage,
hate and denial
of all that you know
and all that you deserve;
and you are not the only one
to fight for everyday you are here,
alive and breathing
and striving to thrive
on such an unforgiving planet,
in such a world
that births emotional deserts
in its people;
you are not the only one
Spell to summon a phoenixThe common trickster will declare
the phoenix is a bird of flame. Not so.
How can mere flame survive death?
The phoenix I tell you is imagination's
gift: you cannot conjure what you cannot
dream. To the crossroads take rubies
finely ground. Where earth's secret
vapours rise, toss a pinch of this dust.
If your spirit lacks the necessary fire,
some other bird may heed your call.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More