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Sunstroke



Eyelids heavy with memories
Cover lights and shadows of a hospital in ruins.
A baby with grown-up fingers
Reads the past in Braille
Barely touching the meaning of broken cobblestone streets of her past.
Her fingertips retract like eyes of snails back into the present
Where handsome men - immoral in their animalism -
try to understand LOVE for the very first time.
Great White sharks kill tri-athletes and place them in immortality
as writers reach the end of the journey frustrated by their lack of gills ...
The torrid yellow burden rolls down incinerated crystals between her breasts
She senses people as zigzags with burglarized drawers
rhythmically roaming up and down the Riviera...
The ocean breeze murmurs: “ Michelle, my belle...”, “ I love, I love you, I looove you...”
Invading her nostrils with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee
and the smell of barbeque that, once she could digest.
The sun drops gold coins into the turquoise as they ricochet into her degenerating eyes.
I see myself in her from the above as unscrupulous tides rip open our sandy abdomen
Violently sucking my body's sand sculpture back to the undertoe.
It's almost dusk and seagulls fly through me to a secret shelter I wish I had...
I'm scared to fall asleep as I might wake up without wings
while numbness's taking over my bleeding shoulder blades...

"The body of a peddler with broken clocks on sale
was found tonight
on the landing pad of a hospital in ruins"


Rootless Innocence
by: Iolanda Scripca


Greenhouses broken forever...

It's freezing.

Rituals count no more,

Hurricanes devour...

Petals dance in circles -

Ecstasy with laughter

Colorful pirouettes

Stepping on Destinies.

Machines - noisy, controlling

Munch roots' depth.

Levers with no soul

Accuse, defend, accuse.

It stopped...

petals fall to the ground

Black, white, gray...

Tears heavy with no thunder

try to recover in an upside down crystal.

Greenhouses broken forever...

Boy scouts sell roots in front of the store.

Tourists drive by in soundproof cars

Saddened by the emptiness of the Californian hills .










by Iolanda Scripca    6/13/2008


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