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All I Want To Do Is See You Turn Into A Giant Woman.



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Fri Mar 24, 2017 9:07 am
Virgil says...



Same.

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Mon Apr 03, 2017 1:44 am
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Audy says...



Little Bird Sings of Automation

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Spoiler! :
I am not too happy with this one. Too telling, too much agenda. I want to up the stylism a bit, and see if I can do something like Pretty bird (where style=subject, form=content), just with machines and whirrs and doom, but that is gonna take time and this is NAPO. Gotta keep it moving.

  





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Tue Apr 04, 2017 5:50 am
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niteowl says...



Dear God you are amazing.

"Monster the Child" confuses me a bit. Like I can't tell if the speaker had a miscarriage or an abortion or is simply on birth control. It is a very strong poem, though, perhaps my favorite so far.

I was also confused by the third stanza of "Puberty". Like I get the overall vibe of growing up and the loss of innocence, but I feel like it's specifically referencing something I don't get.
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

<YWS><R1>
  





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Tue Apr 04, 2017 8:28 am
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Virgil says...



Smh Audy your title always has me singing the song and then it just gets stuck for like an hour and it won't come out.

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Tue Apr 04, 2017 1:28 pm
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Audy says...



@niteowl, <3 thank you! Oh man. How to answer that. With the risk of explaining my thought process below?

Spoiler! :
I shoot myself in the foot writing in first person because the nature of first person is that we are talking about a specific moment and a specific instance. A reader wants to know what that specific feeling and instance is, in order for you to get that first person intimacy I am promising by choosing to write in 1st person. Perhaps that is the disconnect you feel? If so lemme know!

My intentions and agenda fit better with a third person narration. A narration that should tell the reader hey, this is a character who feels this way and there's distance between you and this character. So you do not know WHY she feels this way and that is important.

I wanted a more distant approach because what I am writing about is a "general feeling" (guilt, shame, ostracization) of the monster she feels when she is childless, rather than writing about a specific incidence of a moment in time as it happens, which is why the ambivalence here in the circumstances for the narrator's childlessness. In the reader's eyes it could be any of the above.

A narrator who has had an abortion, the reasons for this feeling stem from that most controversial of choice between another's life and one's own autonomy and the ending is basically (I choose to not be a mother, therefore in my own eyes, in society's eyes, am I a monster, a child?)

If the narrator had a miscarriage, she is feeling these same feelings under different circumstances that are NOT her fault but her biology. But she feels it her own fault anyway. It is wanting to SO badly be a mother but she cannot. (I choose to want to be a mother, but my body is a monster. Do I think less of the "womanhood" of my body if I see myself as a child for not having the ability to create children? )

Versus a narrator who has CHOSEN to be childless not because of biology or abortion but her own choice? So, even in choosing to not be a mother, she still feels these feelings: guilt, shame, ostracization? Why?

Society cannot tell the difference between the woman who has had an abortion, has had a miscarriage, or chooses to be childless well beyomd her 40s as an example. Society only sees: childless. And the judgement encompasses to all of these circumstances. It is important that as a reader (readers who represent society) that you CANNOT TELL WHICH one of these circumstances apply to this woman. Only that she is childless and that she feels this way.

Maybe this will make more sense in third person?


On Puberty
Spoiler! :

I kind of want puberty to feel clunky and awkward and weird but the third stanza I wanted to speak of like that embarrassment and weirdness you feel when inside you are the girl who plays with sock puppets and outside you got called to the dean's office for not wearing a training bra. Awkward. It kind of jolts you quick that you have to stop being this sockpuppet girl and worry about more adult matters. Like periods, those suck. I should probably polish and clarify that up more xD thx for reading and pointing out problem spots. That is GOLD to me. It gives me a fresh look that I am not quite getting down everything in my head onto the page. That eternal struggle :P I can't thank you enough ^^


@Nikayla, I KNOW. Stephen Universe is TOO catchy!
  





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Thu Apr 06, 2017 12:27 pm
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Audy says...



Leisure kills

This was a rude summer
where the flies nestled in your ear
practicing poker and leaving their pickings,
and you quoted by them a sonnett of
the world you came from

a landscape
of women barefoot on balconies
and spinning umbrella dresses
for the storms in your mind

Tell me,
were you that dead inside?
for the maggots are now gambling
for that heart of yours, that one
they carved out of your shame
to build new summer homes
  





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Sun Apr 23, 2017 1:18 am
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Audy says...



A practice sketch and tracing :) I took the structure and concept from Abdul Ali's Trouble Sleeping and gave it a go with a wedding#rant revamp.

I do or Adieu

April arrives, la Monja clinks her coffee with my mother
and deifies the preparations for the wedding procession.
They ask about the ascots, the weaving of lace and the lighting of candles,
and how many columns? What about the corsage? The cornelli must
combiner con los silk of the cumberbunds, and all embellishments, ganache,
will you go champagne or prosecco? How about fragrant mimosas?

Afterwards, scheme over table-seatings, gossip hyenas and lies.
Take your lessons and learn the steps, they teach what to say
in the calligraphy, one must keep your head-down,
one must hand-write individual thank you notes. Mi hija, how come tu no smile?

As I glance to one side of the street, the lesbian poets purse their tangerine lips
for all of two syllables cascades in the wind. Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!
I’m soft-spoken, and she’s a caterwaul. I believe in naked bodies under moon skies.
I do not deserve to be her daughter.
I am not an immigrant to this country, I was borne
from its loins! I am no self-starter. I don’t fit in with church, unlike my mother.

Never made many friends. I am sensitive. I retreat in my woods. Live in moments between hiccups. Prefer freckles to make-up. I smell like a man. I parkour.
Running marathons, I skim my knee on the concrete. I’m nothing like my mother.
I wear hockey pads.

I want to spend my wedding reading Trouble Sleeping, The False Lark,
The Lunatic.

I visit Cabbagetown in search of lemon folk. I’m self-conscious.
My palms tremble in the heat. Long before I could reply to you,
your sassiness and la monja’s voice in my ears: a snare and a drum roll,
mouthing to me how this life is the punch line! Get it?
If I were to tell you, I do. I do. I do.
If I were to tell you I was never meant to be the bride.
And the disbelief on mother's face.

A wrinkled brow. My blush. The realization sinks in.
  





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Sun Apr 23, 2017 1:40 am
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Audy says...



Heat Allergies

The doctor prescribed to me ice-cubes for my heat allergy.
Heat has a character, depending on where you go
and it’s good to be diagnosed.

There’s a heat in the South that bogs everything down,
humid and drawn and stretched out of breath,
these minute hands of a sweat shop,
dog drops and you pick up after it,
slick in it, a soldier drags on a war ditch.
The whap whap whap of the fan—
She’s the sort of woozy heat that warbles,
a widow wallowing after drowning her slaves.

Then there's the heat of Argentinian markets.
Viejita with a hammer fist. Picante, vivacious.
Heat that cries thunderous.
Pickled peppers and peros caliente.
Long itineraries that pinches your pockets,
tickles your tongue and talks back to you.
Suck you mosquitos, viva the tropics
demon of all heat mistresses, an intellect wit of a heat
who lines us bronze for war against ourselves.
That heat of a blazing matador.

Nothing to the headless horse of a dry heaven
who hails you to dust after millenial conflicts.

To the hell of Sahara, the husband who hurt you,
the oceans who stilled when mother dies sickly.

Heat who hunts for homes and hails hungry,
deferring dreams and impoverishing green.

That is the Holy who pounds into you,
to make sure you know that you are made of

wet and warm wet and warm,

human you are born of what needs and nourishes
through wombs and tombs, both wild and courageous.
  





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Sun Apr 23, 2017 2:05 am
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Audy says...



Pre-Audrey

Grandmother and her visitors
talk of the world as though flipping
catalogues over which century to go.

Once upon a time, the world was
cobblestone and uncle Bart climbed
avocado trees.

They built this street in 89
and tore down this bodega, and up came
Winn-Dixie, decades layered on top of decades,
now it's a Starbucks.

She would say remember when, and her
friend would rattle distances and people
pre-Audrey, with a different accent
for all things Post-Audrey,
and I became for them that bridge
connecting the worlds between.
  





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Sun Apr 23, 2017 3:23 pm
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Audy says...



Here be Dragons

Atlanta, we take a long walk.
We put our ears like stethoscopes against her chest.
Red clay, cool blood of the land smears against our palms.
It felt like flesh, these rolling hills breathed an ancient pulse.
Grass arm hairs glistened and soaked in its sweat and labor.

From our vantage, the white infrastructure, carved
into the land like spinal bones, crumbling, falling apart
a pregnant beast, the lands tremble out her progeny—
fields and fields of rotten peach eggs.

Future humans will dig out these bones and discover dragons,
how we lived inside her bellies and feasted upon her fire;
homes crafted from her scales, holes penetrated deep,
wings chopped down, and children strung out alive
and swallowed whole.
  





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Sun Apr 23, 2017 4:17 pm
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Audy says...



Green Songs

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Colorado Roses

Those Colorado wild roses,
a husk gathered in sneezes.
How it cripples my nose
phlegm to the throat
and when I spit it out,
spit it all out
every sun crying in our summers
every whinny of those pony laughs
bountiful freckles lining strong arms
and callused fingers crawl out of me too,
the allergies of the log house we stayed,
you pushed your tongue and me on a barge
and sailed away and I can't swallow anymore,
in your absence, your scent suffocates.
  





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Mon Apr 24, 2017 4:44 pm
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Audy says...



My Ghost


And what of the blood in the sink
from arthritic hands laundered raw?

Grandmother, I see you in the shake
of branches before a hurricane.

I dreamed you could feel it in your bones
my own sins and regrets, I dreamed I killed you
and wrangled your neck with my own breath of lungs.

Knocking against door, against skull for
the giant of a woman you once were
who crafted from the mud
whole villages, from the chimney pot
bore stews for kin, who else but from your skin
brought forth the warmth of the sea we came from
and the struggles endured in relentless pleas?

Where are you, my giantess,
my chaser of lions, my ghost?
  








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