Mystic Lady
Never ending blessings of spring A dark cold winter anticipating, For longer warmer days that are coming And all the miracles it can bring, the never ending blessings of spring, a time for rejoicing in new beginnings a hope for great things, the birth of new seedlings a time for prospering and wondering, the souls meanderings a time for new beginnings its the never ending blessings of spring. April 22nd 2011 mystic lady
Ive seen the real you Ive seen you without your make up , I ve known you before the mask, I saw you before you dyed your hair, without your jewels and fur wrap, I saw you without the thousand pound designer gown with your hair down wearing a frown
Ive looked beyond the facade went you didnt have your expensive car Ive seen the real face, Ive seen your heart break, I can see the pain you hide behind your painted eyes Ive seen behind the glitter whatever thats left is old and bitter, Ive seen whats hides behind the mask a broken doll made out glass. 23 rd April 2011 mystic lady
Pristine False Gods and Goddesses, Devs & Divas, for us to adore becoming Idle in their worship, A teenage consumable dream. Re packaged re issued cut them up in pieces, fix it back together with glue, they are manufactured just for you They bleed then they gleam to become pristine A teenage manufactured dream. Stretched starved painted and sewn as far as the skin will go, Ready to pout ready to pose ,
getting close to an overdose, Ambition & a billion dollars
wearing designer clothes shes on the front row on the front page on the stage
shes all the rage Rotating forwards On the conveyer belt Ready for the mass market Now shes ready for the show Someone you would barely know. Mystic lady 25th March 2011
Selfportrait by Yolanda Mora
Sylvia before the grave
It´s so warm here in the oven Its flanks, impotent. The gas molests my children Her vagina, my privates. It´s six in the morning and i haven´t got out yet. I had to scribble something Between an omelette and a book review, Slippers and skirt with black and red squares Yard locked up. How chilly outside!
My Daddy always told me: They shall pass you a plate of food under the door If you don´t get fucking dressed and get out to eat. Six thirty in the afternoon And i haven´t got out yet. But that is it when you write You have the hours for you. Phobia out of the kitchen Cold phobia to stroll the streets. I think and think. Sivvy sings her own songs, Woah Woooooh and gets higher Boasts. Bashful husband deserted me I spit in my hands I cough and cough But the air, the air is always breathable I was told. I spit cinnamon colored saliva Toxic eating, erratic foods Like my baby, ill, old. Now. I was told the atmosphere is breathable Gas is part of Nature, carbon monoxide and oxygen – Coal, charcoal, white chalks, fluorescent air, The eating of it all. Electro-compulsive Chocolate. Oh, i like so much to be warm
In this weird sweet February . Hot. I jump and stare through the window I should meet new people At the poetic salon When i finish with my curse Menstrual cramps Inside the oven room. The migraine won´t shut up, The famous carpet turns red. The infamous husband´s face turns white. The wolves cry. I finally shut the door and go out to the moors. But my head hurts. I swoon.
You hurt yourself thinking of me As you used to cut yourself, You tend to torture yourself, That´s your illness. I lie on this bed of shell-oils Sheets pure and blue Like a swimmingpool A yearning for something I won´t get out of here. Cobbled streets terrify me, The villagers ask too many questions I shut eyes and sleep the sleep of sane.
I need one more day To recover myself of self-tortures So leave me in this bed of pools – I don´t have my menses right So let me rest, let me lie. I don´t know what to do to fill the other´s gut. Oranges of pure brim. Pure. Purity. Purity. Purity. My square place looks so small Seen from outside – I finally go out. ----
By Yolanda Mora.