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Tell Me A Story

A Poet's Journey

New beginnings should always involve an element of the unattainable as inspiration.

Poetry: Welcome
Poetry: Blog2
  • Writer's pictureAngela Stubbs

Obscure Images Of Your Muse

1. she was always caught in the shutterbug’s spherical aberration. She emerged from its clutches a flawed subject. Blood pulsing through her veins distracted you from the reality of her pale skin tone, her fading smile. Over-exposure never helps one to conquer the hard edges. She’s blurry and fragile without the liquid serum that exists only in your hidden crevices.

2. She salvages domestic energy. It allows for lingerie to leap onto the floor with strangers. Lying in old sheets on rainy Tuesdays is the busiest day for a pastry. She keeps her lips hidden in a week old baguette and all of her pink parts tucked away in a jar of Nutella. She is sly and clever with my decision-making. She puts her face next to yours and says, “what?” You twirl your hair and say “always.”

3. A lucid dream makes you turn red in the face. Pictures line the hallway where yellow fringes and thick paper live on walls. She bounced on trampolines in jodhpurs and eyelet shirts showing off her sloppy gymnast skills for which she required much praise, well in advance of any live performance. You secretly hope she’ll become an equestrian so you buy her a bottle of mane and tail. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

4. Working with sand and salt makes her free of wrinkles but irritable where smoothness is the question. At times, she finds wetsuits camouflage the overwhelming need for skill and precision where there is irrationalism. Weather predicates the type of day she’d have. Ground swells made her skin crackle. On most days, she bled the blood of a fish. Only once did she shed tails in favor of feet.

5. Pleasure lived at the place she frequented. Dusty and musty; she ran her fingers through the catalogue holding cards. A number and a row equaled an afternoon of escape and wonder where she scoured the isles until equilibrium. Truman Capote was taking her to bed. She reveled in the weekly dates she made with dead men.

6. Yellow light. The friendliest of warnings. Do not proceed to go. Do not tell them her hair is fake. She looks good they say. She eats 13 pills and goes grocery shopping. She loses her mind along with her list and you hear her say, “thank you” and ramble on about exercise and health. No one knows she loves ipecac, but it’s fine because she can eat anything but sad.


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