beysshoes's profile

  Before you, I thought I was safe tucked and swaddled inside the cocoon. Before you, I didn’t cry for an hour dance for two just to track back over again. In the after of you, I’m left wanting for the yesterdays of this funeral for friends. In the after of you, I dropped my skin. and tossed it out with the rest of the lies. In the morrow of you, I’m knowing now there’s no safe place. There never was. © 2009 Sarai  

A Soul for the Fucking I tell myself I'm fine dwelling in the space of dark. Sila. No markings of real life. I lay in wait, for another time. Some times a man's spark trips up And lands on my private onset. Off I go into the jubilee It’s happening one more time. I take words, scripts, and passports…at cost. Cons. Activists. Sullied or moored. Dreamers. Runners. Button-hole a friend. Just give me my one more time. Just let me pretend this may be real Jump up my stalled libido smoking under its...

Was that you on the sun kissed easy in Dockers shoes and steel blue shirtsleeves. I thought I heard your wag Peddling a faint. Was that your smile that nicked me, beaming anew. Holding onto a gaze Curled in reissued mirth. It looked like you I pinched Carrying parcels and books I saw the back of you walk away, still wearing my daystar. The night-blinds have lifted the juggins And, still, I rummage... In my quest for the key to the nightlatch. I listen and hear the soundless mime lorry the ra...

A Soul for the Fucking I tell myself I'm fine dwelling in the space of dark. Sila. No markings of real life. I lay in wait, for another time. Some times a man's spark trips up And lands on my private onset. Off I go into the jubilee It’s happening one more time. I take words, scripts, and passports…at cost. Cons. Activists. Sullied or moored. Dreamers. Runners. Button-hole a friend. Just give me my one more time. Just let me pretend this may be real Jump up my stalled libido smoking under its...

The Scarring of Jones The headlines screamed “Mass Murder in Paradise” It told of the shooting deaths of seven corporate island men who had lived honorable, hard working, family driven lives. It described the stark interruption of an ordinary balmy island morning, by a “disgruntled colleague who snapped”. What began as a pink slip, delivered the week before, had over the weekend digested. The process malfunctioned; the recipient didn’t go away. Instead he returned with his own brand of pink s...