Fickle
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Fickle [userpic]
Daughter by Nicole Blackman

“ One day I’ll have a tiny baby girl
and when she’s born she’ll scream
and I’ll tell her never to stop.

i'll tell her about the power of water, the seduction of paper
the promise of gasoline, and the hope of blood.

i'll teach her to shave her eyebrows and mark her skin.
i'll teach her that her body is her greatest work of art.

I will kiss her before I lay her down at night
and will tell her a story so she knows
how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

I’ll tell her to set things on fire
and keep them burning.
I’ll teach her that fire will not consume her,
that she must use it.

i'll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything, to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
just as long as she feels something.
i'll help her to do her best work when it rains.
i'll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.

i'll teach her to develop all her selves
the courageous ones, the smart ones, the dreaming ones, the fast ones
i'll teach her that she has an army inside her that can save her life.

i'll tell her to say FUCK like people say THE
and when people are shocked to ask them why they so fear
a small quartet of letters.

I’ll tell her that people must earn the right
to use her nickname,
that forced intimacy is an ugly thing.

I’ll help her to see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I’ll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I’ll teach her to
write everything down with her tongue,
write it on her thighs.

I’ll make her keep reinventing herself and run fast.
I’ll teach her to write her manifestos
on cocktail napkins.
I’ll say she should make men lick her ambition.
I’ll make her understand that she is worth more
with her clothes on.
I’ll teach her to talk hard.
i'll tell her that her skin is the most beautiful dress
she will ever wear.

I’ll tell her that when the words come too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leave the door open.
I’ll teach her to follow the words.

i'll tell her to stand up and head for the door after she makes love.
when he asks her to stay she'll say she's got to go.

i'll tell her that when she first bleeds when she is a woman,
to go up to the roof at midnight, reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

They will try to make her stay,
comfort her, let her sleep, bathe her in a television glow.
I will cut her hair, tell her to light the house on fire,
kill the kittens,
when nothing is there
nothing will keep her
and she is not to be kept.

I’ll say that everything she has done seen spoken
has brought her to the here this now.
This is no time for tenderness,
no time to stand, waiting for them to find her.
There are nations within her skin.
Queendoms come without keys you can carry.

I’ll teach her that she has an army inside her
that can save her life.
I’ll teach her to be whole, to be holy.
I’ll teach her how to live,
to be so much that she doesn’t even
need me anymore.
I’ll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
Things get broken fast here.

I will make her stronger then I ever was.

Turned at twenty
she’ll break into bits of star
and throw herself against the sky.

I will not let them destroy her life
the way they destroyed mine.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.”
— Daughter by Nicole Blackman

Fickle [userpic]
After Happily Ever

After Happily Ever

This is the part no one talks about:
How the goddamn translator
fucked everything up.

If she'd only kept her name,
not been Americanized,
she'd still be Aschenputtel,
a name like a whisper
or a kiss.

If her pals still called her "Assypuss,"
not "Cindy" or "Cinder" or even "Ella,"
maybe she would have had a shot at a real
man, or maybe a plastic surgeon ass man
or a construction worker to jackhammer
into her for hours
or even just work her clit
now and then.

But no.
It had to be a prince
with a foot fetish-
the glossy stacks of Leg World,
Leg Show, Toe Girls
,
under the bed,
Lloyd's of London's 12 billion dollar
insurance policy
on her feet.

And that fucking translator.
It was all his fault.
If he's known vair was fur and not
verre, glass, she'd have a closet
with silky, sumptuous shoes of mink,
fox, maribou, seal,
and her feet would sink into them
like butter.

Instead, her shoes are the unforgiving ice
of hand-blown Sisley glass.
sea-sanded coke bottle glass, mirrored disco ball glass,
crazy-quilt stained glass.

Every night the same thing.
The translator and her husband come
pouring sickly sweet champagne
for themselves, never her.
She doesn't care.
She sips at her whisky
and stares at the yellow ceiling
until it's over.

The prince sits nearby
as the translator slides the shoe
off her left foot, slowly,
slowly it caresses her left heel,
hushes slowly over the left arch,
and slithers away from her toes, slowly,
slowly.

Then the prince is slobbering at her foot like a puppy dog,
a big, drooly one, making her shoe ring like a crystal wine glass
as his tongue runs laps around the open toe.

Her foot
down
the prince's
throat,
as deep as he
can get it
until her foot
cramps
and his eyes
water
and the spot
shines
on the front of his
pants.

The translator waits nearby
with a towel, creams, polish,
pumice stone, oils,
emery boards, and a fucking closet
full of glass slippers:
platforms, mules, slingbacks,
oxfords, wingtips, stilettos,
pumps. What the hell
is she supposed to do
with fifty pairs of glass
running shoes ferchrist'ssake?

He forbids her
to run, even walk-
corns, calluses, plantar's warts,
bunions, ringworm,
athlete's foot-

Her sisters had it right
the first time around,
slicing off their toes, their heels.
Let them have him.

She sharpens the ax slowly,
slowly, with a lover's
caress.

There is $12 billion
in a Swiss bank account
and a wheelchair
waiting for her
in the Caymans.

No one will ever find her.
No one will be looking
for Assypuss.

She draws a red line
just above her ankles,
where the bones
are the thinnest.
She tears her wedding dress
into white satin
bandages.

Soon she will grow new skin
on the end of her shins,
tender as a baby
buttocks, translucent
as glass.

She can't wait.
She's ready. All she needs
is a little more sharpening
and a little more scotch.


by Daphne Gottlieb

Fickle [userpic]
Fifteen, She Learns.

Fifteen, She Learns

That summer I grew two inches and stood
taller than the other girls. The neighborhood
boys who gave me no chance to speak
rated me as ugly, took me to the creek
in the dusk, so they couldn't see my face.
A hole is a hole, they'd say. I took the place
of the cold beauties who stood too far away
to touch or have. I would do today.

As they'd get off me they'd say damn fine work
and for a minute I'd forget a jerk is a jerk
and for a minute my heart wouldn't hurt.

As they disappeared and left me in the dirt
I'd wonder why I did this and what it was worth.
A girl grows used to the smell of the earth.

A teacher expresses her "concern" and calls me
"dear." If there's one thing to learn, it's who falls. Me
I Her She. I don't have a name, I'm a throwaway,
I'm a stat, I'm a report. There's a girl who plays
around in every school, I'm just this year's model.
They advise, they admonish, they punish, they coddle,
but nothing changes the depth of the rut once
you're in it. There are good girls. There are cunts.

She said they only want me for one thing, well,
at least they want me for something, I tell
her and the guidance counselors just talk and talk
and when they're done cutting me up I walk
back to class and say it's cool, pretend I'm fine.
Children are chickens and kill the weak. The whine
that pleads is met with a boot, cemented with blood.
I know the name of the brute, confuse him with God.

The slut alwayas gets invited to the party the last minute
like extra ice or beer. There's a game and she's in it.
How long before she's out and easy?
It's a blood sport, makes you queasy
to think of it now doesn't it?
But every girl wants to be a hit.
As I slide down the kitchen wall
they watch to see how fast I fall.

Drunk in the basement, I'm dizzy and fading,
in a room full of boys standing there, waiting,
and someone begs tension that needs relieving
(show me a boy that's worth believing).
Together we make a cocktail of surprise
with my soft ears, his hard eyes.

So stupid, I think this one's brilliant from the rest,
that he'll kiss my mouth before touching my breast,
but the light in the bathroom is fluroescent, a girl could
go blind from examinatio. A doctor would
prop her up and pry inside where she is private, shy,
but here he's not even a doctor he's just a guy
who came to conquer, who came deranged, who
knows tomorrow's not what we arranged. True,
I know they'll only steal what they crave and
how sad that no one chose to save me, and
that my worth was so low I was marked "give away"
instead of "yours tomorrow" or "his today".

No valentines, no heart attack, I
must get out of this intact. I
know everything I hold dear gets shredded
and kings become captives, beauties are beheaded.

They want to see how much I can stand
even when I'm lying down. My hand
is held down by one who won't speak to me in school
won't give away the secret, it's all too uncool
to confess that he liked my story,
my dress, my joke. So I'm a whore. He
knows he writes the history. Denials pours fast
as beer. I've no safety in a house that's glassed,
with windows soaped up by my little brother.

The vain girls who wreathe onto each other
can smell the cum on me, but never ask
Are you okay? or Did you bring a flask?

You learn what makes you cry so
you can avoid it. Inside you die so
like a soldier but what tight battles makes
you perfect, strong? Cattle takes
off across the field. Girl takes off across sky
like a dandelion. What it costs, why
she goes, how long she's gone is
just a children's storybook song. Is
this a transformation, a survival, a way of flight?
How something ugly becomes so bright?

Reputations are like rocks you drag 'til you
bury them in a new town or they kill you.

At fifteen I had no choice and I found my
skill wasn't fucking, but flying to air from ground. I
practiced at night in the backyard
and when I fell on to the ground, hard,
I knissed the dirt and remembered the taste
of basement, the creek, the disgrace.
Choose sky or dirt, I said, choose sky or dirt.
and the next time I rose, I flew, and nothing hurt.
All girls are born with wings.
They never tell you these things.

Abandoned the wood, the tree house, the creek, the slaughter,
the science book, the experiments. Your daughter
knows that a boy is a cheat is a fraud is a liar
and the girls she was taught to admire
don't hold up, disappear like dust.
The things we love we must
abandon like dolls,
keep clean the halls
that keep us clean. Girl,
this is a dark deep dream world.
Don't open your heart or open your thighs.
Your fathers are stones but your mothers are spies
who ask Why is there dirt on the back of your head?
but never Did it hurt? or Do you wish you were dead?

Boys are snips and snails
and puppy dog tails.
A girl is made of burnt honey, of sour fear
(tell me what is costs to disappear).

When you tell the story
tell them it was me. Me.

Neglected like laundry, she was a slip of a girl
who took pride in passing through the world
and leaving no footprints behind her. Her
mother wouldn't miss her, wouldn't mind her
evaporation.(There are too many children already.)
I'll tell the next girl to keep her head straight, her sight steady.

You'll have to go in the daylight, a circle of enemies around,
like the boys who dragged you, the girls who knocked you down.
They'll all be watching you do your one trick, waiting to see
if it's real, if it's why you were picked, the girl to be
golden , the one to become a fairy when they become women.
You, the one to alight, the one to arise. Kim in
her denim jacket and pink dress, Rachel in her dark
coat and black shoes, you were selected in the park,
you were the one they'd choose, again and again. They
knew you were tougher, that you could play
back against whatever they threw at you and if
they gave you a lump of coal instead of a gift
thank them for the unkindness that gave you this command,
that made their blindness something sweeter than
you ever thought it could be. It brought you
out from daydreams and bloody strings, caught you
between bible and bra strap into a territory you never knew would bring
a way to escape your old world with your new wings.

When I turned 15, I learned to fly,
and finally learned how not to die.


- by Nicole Blackman

Fickle [userpic]
it's not Christmas but it's my birthday in a month -2 days

What I Want For Christmas by Nicole Blackman

I want to know how it will end.
I want to be sure of what it will cost.
I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.
I want you to call me on your drug phone.
I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.
I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.
I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.
I want the name of the ruiner.
I want matches in case I have to suddenly burn.
I want you to know that being kind is overrated.
I want to measure how much torture we can stand.
I want to know where your altruism went.
I want to watch you lose control.
I want to watch you lose.
I want to know exactly what it's going to take.
I want to see you insert yourself into glory.
I want your touches to scar me so I'll know where you've been.
I want you to watch when I go down in flames.
I want to crush the thing that you love just so you know I can.
I want a list of atrocities in your name.
I want to work both sides of the fence.
I want to have two cats so when one dies one will eat the other and nothing will be wasted.
I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.
I want you to turn tender when you have the time.
I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.
I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.
I want to find a way for you to survive all of this.
I want to taste my own kind.
I want America to be socialized around creation instead of fear.
I want to meet your host virus.
I want to charm your sleep captain.
I want everyone to see your tiara break.
I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it's different on the other side.
I want you to play it to me over the phone.
I want you to make a scorching debut.
I want you to come on strong.
I want the television left on so I can sleep.
I want to crunch numbers.
I want you to write your life story and leave me out of it.
I want to write my secret across your sky.
I want to keep you in the dark.
I want to leave you out in the cold.
I want to voice my concerns.
I want the exact same thing but different.
I want some soft drugs, some soft soft drugs.
I want to throw you.
I want to know if I'll ever be safe in the dark.
I want to decide who next year's dead rock stars will be.
I want you to know I know.
I want to speak hot metal fluently.
I want to know why you're starting to look like the last one.
I want just enough rope to hang you.
I want to hurt myself before you do, because I can do it better.
I want to coax the keys from your hand.
I want to throttle the bottle blonde because I know what she did.
I want to know if you read me.
I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.
I want to silver your hands.
I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you'll do.
I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.
I want a controlling interest.
I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.
I want to be your secret hater.
I want to stop destroying you but I can't.
I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.

Backstory. )

Current Mood: frustrated frustrated
Fickle [userpic]
Pick up lines for feminists.

pick-up lines for feminists

Lesley Kartali



making the move

at the bar

the club

the pro-choice rally

or the conference

on women's rights

in the 21st century

is no easy task

for feminists

young and old.


how do you

subtly ask for digits

while still making it

perfectly clear

that you are fine

being alone

and are certainly

not buying into the idea

that women are worthless

without a significant other?


just remember to smile.

or not.

(depending on if you

feel like it)

and try some

of these lines

on for size:


if i could rearrange

the alphabet

i would put u and i

together

and then we could

work on trying

to think outside

of this male dominated

language.


your paradigm or mine?


you're so sweet

you put hersheys

out of business.

so sweet

you can bring down

all those

bastard big businesses.


somebody better call

god/allah/buddah/

assorted goddesses/etc.

because he/she/gender neutral being

are missing an

angel/messiah/messenger.

*if atheist this line may not work


did it hurt?

when you fell

from the top

of the hierarchy

when society

identified you

as a woman?


pinch me.

with consent of course.

you are so

third wave

i must be dreaming.


where have you been

all my life?

hopefully fighting

against oppressive

patriarchal systems.


your feet must be tired.

because you have been

running through my

mind and struggling

against the repressive

gender roles

that we have been

socialized into

all day.


if the personal is political

then our getting together

has the potential

to subvert the patriarchy.


what's your sign?

radical? liberal?

socialist? cultural?

eco?


if these lines fail

don't worry.

it's probably just

because our

fascist media

has embedded

said pick-up line

receiver

with the idea

that you are a

crazy

scary

man-hating

castrating

bitch.


just keep telling yourself.

if they haven't

started questioning

what society

tells them yet.


then maybe

they are not

the one

for you.


I am weirdly fond of this, even though I hate pick up lines in general. XD Maybe it's just because these amuse me with how twisted they are.

Fickle [userpic]
Genius Child, by Langston Hughes.

Genius Child.

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him
- and let his soul run wild.

-- Langston Hughes


This is yet another poem I came across thanks to that anthology of poetry and adore.

It fits a lot of the characters that I like to RP; it hits me hard every time that I read it, imagining the command 'Kill him' being said in a whisper.

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