The Potter Girl

The Potter Girl

Once there was a girl who was called the potter girl just because she had a gift with sculpting clay. But in actual fact, she never made pots or vases. but to call her a sculptor or an artist would be an insult to men... only men apparently.

Instead she preferred sculpting plants and animals. And what set her apart from other sculptors (men) was that she had the gift of giving life into her work. Her plants could grow. Her animals could move and run and hunt and feed and kill. Some people call her a witch; others, the devil's child.

She never cared.

One day, she got bored of her clay flora and fauna.

She said to herself, I'm sure I can do better than this! I know. I shall make a clay baby.

And a clay infant she did make. Before it was even done, it started crying! And she did not even bother deciding its gender. She threw it aside.

I can do better. I shall make a man!

She started sculpting. The crying stopped after a yelp and a growl. Her clay lion seemed to be pleased, licking its lips. The sexless baby was nowhere to be seen...

Her clay man was beautiful and well... huge.

Make love to me, he said as his pudenda slowly rose.

Disgusted she turned to her work table and decide once again, she could make a more perfect creature.

The clay man start satisfying himself a stroke at a time.

She took longer with the next sculpture. She made an angel.

It stood tall and silent. Unmoving. Merely glaring at her.

Talk! She yelled in annoyance.

Silent.

Frustrated yet again, she decided to sculpt another level of perfection.

She took seven days. Finally she was done. She made God. God's hair was long and silken. God's skin was white as it was made of the whitest clay. Every curve of God's flesh were defined. Even the breasts. Yes. Breasts.

The girl smiled at God. And her clay replica smiled back. Finally. Perfection. She had created God in her own image....

Weeping Stone Angel

Weeping Stone Angel

My feet so cold upon the cobbled road
In an ancient Prague cemetery.
With broken lilies and broken roses;
Offerings in broken pottery.

I find myself here today.
I've lost no one, last I checked.
Yet my feet had dragged me this way again
So I could pay my last respects.

There, wings ripped asunder, she looms over me,
With stone body and stone feathers.
Her hands covered her unseen face
Shielding her from the darkness before her.

Her grey body, cold, draped in stone garments.
How pathetic she looks, yet I look at her.
Among the dead, she weeps so silent.
Everyone has simply forgotten her.

Why are you weeping and for whom?
Who is so deserving of thy tears
When I have none offered to me?
Uncover your virgin eyes and see me here!

Is he more beautiful than me?
What has he given you that I can't give?
Does he even know that you exist?
And does he live to see you live?

Or does he too cover his eyes which he whores?
Blind to you as he worships another.
Numb to all the sacrifices you have made.
Making your love for him Hell's torture.

Weep for me you stupid angel! You Winged Madonna.
Can't you see I love you true?
I would trade my heart for your holy tears.
Or am I not Christ enough for you?

I may weep till my eyes burn.
Yet those ancient hands will never move.
Will never break away from her burning eyes.
Her stone head shall never turn to me, and look.
(...at me...)

I walk away unhurt and unhurt. And unhurt.
Except for my heart aching within.
I don't need some stone seraph's tears.
I just need you to weep for me.
(...for once...)

I shall walk away from you one day, as I'd left her,
Then you shall cease to exist in my wretched life.
I shall forget you like the others forgot her.
Then you'll look up, see nothing, and cry... till you die.
(...for no one's there...)

(...So before it's too late, look up and see
And with joy, and love, you shall cry for me...)

The Sleeping Princess

The Sleeping Princess

Have you heard the legend, that tale of the princess who lies asleep for thousands and thousands of years? Whose hair shines like gold beneath the judging sun? Whose skin shames alabaster? Whose lips are those of a siren’s kiss?

Well, let me tell you something. It’s true.

Not the whole truth but still the truth.

She exists, at least. And the magical coma; that’s true too.

She’s more beautiful than Venus herself but no one can tell underneath all that dried blood. The curves of her body are the fruits that tempted Eve and Adam, yet the way the arch and bend and stretch awkwardly now only disgusts.

Only her eyes, I can safely say, escaped such mutilation; but then again, who can see them when they hide behind shut lids.

Where is she?

Somewhere in Jerusalem; in a cave hidden by her Pontius Pilates and guarded by her Judases.

But let it be know, no mortal can kill her. All those fools could manage was this pseudo death.

Ammo: Poison.

Some said it was a fairy who did it, others, the emperor. Maybe even the Pope.

Who knows.

In the darkness she sleeps unclothed. In the absence of light, her tousled blood mottled hair glows like a weak halo. Upon her head, is a crown, a wreath of rose thorns; her birthright to a throne unknown.

Her hands and feet bleed endlessly, feeding the dark moist earth beneath. Why? Nails. They are nailed onto dark wood; onto a monstrous and ungodly pine crucifix; hung up there like a dead game to her antagonists. Look at them laughing and staring at her naked body thinking they have won.

But know one thing: She Will Rise Again.

And when she does those who have wronged her, beware.

Those who had tortured her, raped her, mutilated her, crucified her, but above all, judged her shall be damned to a hell of ice so cold they burn; where soft winds blow the flesh to frostbites. These are those mortals who believed themselves to be gods; dictating false virtues and condemning supposed unnaturals. They are the ones who brainwashed whole nations to march against our princess and her fellow brethren. These cruel mortals will wander this realm of dark whiteness with no form of nourishment; except for their frozen flesh. They will be forced to eat themselves slowly, very slowly, until all that is left is their pathetic little frigid hearts. Of course, this self-cannibalism will take an eternity.

Those who merely watched and laughed and pointed and enjoyed themselves while she and her people where stripped of their dignity, raped in public and tortured under the blind sun, they too shall be punished. They might not have been the hand wielding the corrupted blade, but who cares? It’s all the same to her. These wretched mortals shall be sent to a hell of knives and whips and shackles. The men shall be castrated while the women will have their wombs torn out off them by hand. There, they shall suffer endless torture. They shall be raped relentlessly. They shall be sodomized cruelly. They shall be given no dignity for they gave none.

Those who did not judge her. Those who did not fight for her. Those who did nothing. Now, they shall be sent to a limbo of nothingness. For, these sad mortals forgot about her; they did not care at all. So, why should she care about them now? She will not glance at them like how they hid their eyes from her when she was dragged up upon the cross. She will not think of them like how they did not think of how she suffered. She will forget them, and when this happens, they will disappear from reality, like they simply never existed to begin with.

But those who are her brethren, her children, worry not. For, salvation is here. Those who were hung for being sodomites. Those who were whipped again and again for using their god given bodies to make a living through prostitution. Those who were treated like dogs due to the color of their skin. Those who were branded infidels because of their differing values. And those who, like her, have been beaten and abused for being a “mere woman”.

Those who have suffered like her and still fought with courage by her side shall be sent to a heaven where the cruel world of before will be easily forgotten. It is a place where beauty is abundant. It is a world governed only by the possibilities of the imagination. Most importantly, it is a world that does not judge. It shall be a new world where life will finally be “life”.

But for now, she is still asleep.

But remember: She Will Rise Again.

Cinderella: Second Chances

Cinderella: Second Chances

A second chance, a second way
To prove myself and show you who I am today.

A second chance, a second life.
Since you've been gone, I've never had to live a lie.
No more hiding, now I'm strong.
I know where I do belong.
It's in these sweet sweet seconds,
The present beckons
Me to live.

A second truth. A second lie.
Despite the pain you've caused you never left my mind.

A second chance, a second glance.
You had a chance to take a chance on me
But you couldn't
Wouldn't
Shouldn't
Choose me.
Because who could've
Should've
Would've
Loved me.

Yet what lucky chance! A second chance.
A second choice; a way of voicing what we hide.
No more caging what we feel.
No more worrying what THEY'll think.
It's in this hope I trust
Even if it should last
For a second.

A second whisper. The second slipper.
Now that hearts fit the silver gown don't even matter.
It's all I wanted
Wished
And wondered
How it feels.
I merely wondered
Wished
And wanted
You to see
Me.

A second moment. The second time
You stand so close to me, your body pressed to mine.
With your lips upon my ears
As you whispered words so dear,
"I love you so"
Then I'll know
This is it.

Just Breathe...

A second chance. A second dance.
An endless waltz of love, I ask for, just this once.

Me and Mother Mary

Me and Mother Mary

It was Christmas Eve,

Snow falling on my face.

I went to an old church

Not far from my place.

There was a nativity scene

“When Christ was born.”

It was the most calming thing

I ever saw.

I looked not at the wise men,

Joseph or the baby.

The person who caught my eye was

The Mother Mary.

Her face was a story

Of life, truth and pain.

Her eyes stared into mine;

They screamed of hope without faith.

Were you the child,

Who asked no more?

Were you the child,

Pretty when you were born?

Were you the child,

Who thought you’d never die?

Who never used to think

Of pain and of strife?

You’ve got a child to feed

Back at home.

You had to do what you need.

You need to do what you know.

Mary, Mary,

Hair of gold.

Did you have a choice?

No one ever knows.

Mary, you offered yourself,

So willingly.

Mary, Mary,

Me and Mother Mary.

She’s finished with the Manger Scene.

She’s undressing herself.

She’s putting on her lipstick

For somebody else.

She drops her holy garments

Of royal blue.

She puts on black laced leather

And she’s walking to you.

She’s got a boy back home,

Her bastard child.

She works herself for him.

He is her life.

You hope he’ll be great.

You hope he’ll be smart.

You hope that one day,

He’ll even own a car.

She was swaying her curved hips

As she walked the streets.

Not the minding the pain

From her six inch heels.

And a car pulled over.

He asked “how much?”

She said “fifty a night.

A hundred for SM and such.”

She entered the car

Of the man with the dirty mouth.

She asked, “do you want a head,

Or do you wanna go all out?”

You followed him home,

You brazen girl.

Unafraid for your life.

Unafraid of the world.

He liked playing rough.

He beat her about.

It’s okay since he liked it

Till he came out loud.

She took the money and headed home

As she nursed her bruise.

She said “thank God it’s over.”

But she spoke too soon.

Her door was open.

And a mess inside.

Yet that’s not what scares her.

She only feared for her child.

He’s now fifteen;

Old enough to fend for himself.

Yet she feared for him each day.

Oh how it scared her to death.

She prayed for hope

As she cried out his name.

And that’s when she found him

Lying there dead.

You fell to your knees

And you held your baby tight.

And you bathed in his blood

As you cried and cried.

And that’s when a knife

Appeared before your eyes

And cut open your throat

And extinguished your life.

And there they lay; a bloody mess,

Mother and child.

Their faces spoke of stories,

Hopeful faith in their eyes.

Damned Children

Damned Children

I am a child, abandoned by my holy mother, though holy she is not.
I am a child, forced into adulthood by the hands of the cowardly lot.

I am a child, inverted and inverted again into a life of a sodomite.
I am a child, traipsing down the streets of Gomorrah, only to be murdered by a temple knight.

I am a child who purges my body of invisible sins; relishing pain.
I am a child, weeping in purgatory, knowing my sorrows will never be slain.

I am a child, silent to the ears, invisible to the eyes, cold to the touch.
I am a child who walks among the dead, not saying, not asking, not begging much.

I am a child who "loved not wisely but too well," oh how I "loved not wisely but too well."
I am a child who dreams of heaven, oh heaven, but caress hell, oh hell.

I am a child who yearns to fit into this world among the saints and the saintly.
I am a child who wants to be heard, screaming "I'm Here!" yet I still speak so faintly.

I am a child, twisted like the devil, bent on bending the world into his own.
I am a child who hears all, sees all yet feel none; for I am alone,

We are the children, punished with sinful pain and punished for painful sin.
We are the children, lost and damned, never to enjoy this limbo of flesh and skin.

The Virgin and The Whore: Chapter One

The Virgin and The Whore

I come from places and times where hysteria and beauty go hand in hand. Times books aren't meant to repeat. Places dead poets dragged with them to their silent graves.

Was it Venice? Or Paris? Or Italy?

Was it the 16th Century? 17th? 18th? Or was it the 19th?

I cannot recall. But then again, does it matter where you come from?

The only thing that matters is where you end up…

~Chapter One ~

Blood Ties: Parents and Homes

I had… I have three mothers and two fathers.

My "real" ones? What do you mean by that?

Biological? The ones that conceived me?

They lived in the darkest of streets; the heartbeat of the moon children, the beings of darkness. Drugs, alcohol, sex, rape, murder, theft, assault and prostitution were the divine rituals of their damned religion. When the moon shines, they shine. When the darkness dances, they dance. And my "real" parents too joined in these dark dances each day and night of their lives.

I learned the steps of these damned dances at a very young age. And my "real" parents were my first teachers.

Their tango:

Father returns home.

Father drinks from his bottle of rum.

Mother yells.

Father yells back.

He throws the bottle against the wall.

She gasps.

He steps strong towards her with the aggression of a hunter.

She continues yelling.

Yet she steps back, in sync with his steps towards her.

Her tattered dress moves like a matador cape.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her shoes on the floor.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

She presses her spine against the wall, heaving as her bosom expanded with every breath.

His turn; left foot forward.

Then right.

Left.

Right.

Left again.

The yelling stops.

He is an arms length away from her.

His right hand rises up and falls upon her cheeks.

The contact.

She falls on the wooden floor.

The thud.

He picks up a stool that stood conveniently nearby.

She cries "no, no, no".

He steps towards her.

Left foot. Right foot. Left.

She crawls away from him, dragging herself with her hands.

Left hand. Right hand. Left.

Now the stool dances its solo dance; singing with the swishing of the wind, with each rise and fall.

Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.

The thud.

Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.

The thud.

Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.

The thud.

Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.

The thud.

Up to the Heavens. Down to Hell.

The curtain of crimson blood falls.

End.

That was last their tango. Their last ballet. No more encore.

I can still remember the tiny specks of flesh and meat from her skull, scattered upon the pool of brilliant red. They were like little stars in a sky of red, I thought then. It was like a painting conceived by an artist with skills we know not of; God came to mind.

The awkward, rag doll limpness of the limbs and neck. The blank dead stare of the eyes. The open skull giving birth to the red which grew with every second you kept your eyes upon it. It made me weep. I was in awe not sorrow.

I must have been too young for loss then. Or maybe, I just did not care. He sure did not.

He disposed off her body. Then, he sold me away to Gomorrah.