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THE STOLEN POEM

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Grown Children

Grown Children

You think utilizing my Children

as Ploys will make

my fingers stop from typing

unbearable Truths of you.

Self-projected

into Characters

which aren't even You

(I've been saving those).

But

what will you do

when they reach adulthood?

Until then Motherfuckers,

you may keep me capped -

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boiling inside the bottle

that can't be thrown out

into your Sinning Seas.

In 7 years

it will boil over

and pop that fucking cork

Permanently

Free.

"Suck that Bitch!"

Copyright 2011

Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

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• Allotment

A lapse in time

can be the creation

of another time,

which only exists

if one brings

into being

il'lumanitively

surreal moments.

If we transit

into this undefined

unmeasured space,

it is all ours

to dance

our mentality

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through -

rupturing strife.

Copyright 2011 Trixy

Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

The Purchase

Children are born Innocent

we manipulate and conceive

for they do not understand

the nifty expensive donations

are only to buy that innocence

away until they understand

that what happened-you did.

It may be months or years or days

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or maybe never if you purchased

brain-washing for your advantage

to mold with both your dirty palms

shaky covered in filthy cotton candy

paid for by a father to hide torment

he will always detest with a smirk.

Did you ever question how they'd

be if that Ferris Wheel dumps you

within it spinning you around until

you're trapped into one of its' cages

or fell barely missing a few more

seats to tangle you around them:

Round and Round and Round.

Copyright 2011 Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

(All Rights Reserved)

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• One must Be Poisoned to Poison

One must be Poisoned to Poison

which takes knowing you are poisoned

to end the poisoning of our ignorance,

cortar la garganta de los instigadores!

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(Cut the throat of the Instigators.)

Empty those seedlings from your pockets -

throw them into our bottomless sewage,

que ha plantado mucho no puede restaurar

(you've planted too much to restore)

till our bones are dried we will scrape.

Be aware of your actions of idiocy,

show bravery to realize and recognize

them as your own self-disposition

Il crepitio in un continuum rotto ha perso -

(Crackling into a broken continuum, lost).

Copyright 2011 Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

(English, Italian, and Spanish

European/Spanish utilized although stated in

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English in one way or another..) For Yolanda

and Skanf especially, in my thoughts.

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Robin

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TALISMAN

When I was light enough

to land on a nasturtium leaf

I brewed a talisman

behind the kitchen door.

Fumes flared from the flower-horns,

singeing the morning.

I pickled my heart in the laundry trough

and pegged it out to dry.

I sealed it in a locket,

the grey, shrunken clot

that I air now,

seeking the thread of a red pulse.

By Marian Webb.

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Summer

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une jeune fillette

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CLOCK

The ticking of a clock

pitters perpetually on my bedhead,

though the clock has gone.

The ticking skitters

up and down the wood-grain

like a mouse scurrying

everywhere the clock was set,

fluttering time like a tiny tin-can

tied to its skinny tail,

flicking the clicking in my ear,

tricking me asleep like a ghostly heart,

hurrying past midnight

into darkening morning.

I huddle under cover, afraid of the evil eye.

The hours swell with omens.

A streetlamp fades.

Time, a phantom ticking at my head

flitters in the rising noise of dawn.

By Marian Webb.

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The Witch

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Marian Webb

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The Witch

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Poupée.

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Her/Me

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Vomiting all night long. Me.

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...

-Tenemos que ir a América, aquí no hacemos nada, no aprecian el arte, dicen

que somos unos vagabundos.- dijo Duncan.

-Ya he estado en América; he estado con dos sudamericanos.

-No, eso no vale. Me refiero a viajar. Te mueres por ir a conocerla.

-A quién.

-A tu artista favorita.

-La tierra de las oportunidades, ¿no? ¿Ir a Maine?

-No, a California. Haremos un tour, y de paso, vendes tus pinturas allí.

-Tú crees que mis pinturas no valen nada.

-No. Nunca me dejas decir nada sobre lo que haces. Si digo algo y meto la

pata… ufff… me matas…

-Ni siquiera te gusta Picasso. ¡Por no hablar de Jackson Pollock!

Francesca dudó un momento si entregarle el regalo que le había comprado con

los pocos ahorros que tenía, un disco de su grupo favorito. Era supersticiosa,

siempre contaba hasta tres. El tercer disco de la fila. No estaba más nuevo ni

los colores eran más brillantes; era simplemente el que VALÍA. Así que lo cogió,

lo pagó y lo trajo a casa.

-Vamos a California.

-Ya, CAmerica. ELLA me dará con la puerta en las narices.

-Es tu artista viva favorita, y tiene tu edad. Aprende, aprende. Además, el

mundo se ha vuelto tan pequeño… Podemos ir a cualquier parte, sweetheart.

Los artistas son tu verdadera familia, todos estáis conectados…

-Ya, como las cuerdas enredadas de ENNEAD de Eva Hesse.

-¿Ves? Todos han ido a América.

-Eran otros tiempos… Ahora todo ha fracasado.

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-Come onnnnnn!!!!

-Ya. Todos estamos liados con todo el mundo. Todos se lían con todos en esta

ciudad de mierda… What a mess! ¿Y si no entiende mi inglés?

-Un abrazo lo entiende todo el mundo.

Francesca le dio su regalo y un beso, al fin y al cabo era su cumpleaños, no

tenía por qué ser tan dramática. No hay que ser cruel con quien se ama.

-Love me- suplicó Francesca.

-Ya te amo, idiota.- y Duncan la abrazó.