I WILL WALK YOU HOME II by Suzy Devere

No, you won't fucking walk anyone home.

You need a break.  To get back to reality.  Hello?  This is Suzy.  Dear FrostingandFire, you are totally, completely F-U-C-K-E-D.  Whatever you've been doin, you need to STOP doin' IMMEDIATELY.

Life is about fun.  Running from fat men.  Laughing at fart jokes. Stealing the shopping cart and using it to store your underwear in at home.  FORGET growing old.  Forget old people.  Cry only at funny things and make the unfunny into comedy so you can keep crying and get a hot John to buy you some tissues.  But walking a piece-a-shit who pays you no mind home?  What is your damage, Lady?

Light a spliff.  Call me later.

--Suzy Devere

THE GIVING MOON II

Sweet plum

sweet slick soft edge

soft shoulder

crawl into my breast

young moon love made clear like angel glass

find me

cigarette out/jump out frog

a space to be before and while

regimental sun is tied

soft like summer moon

a giving moon.

I WILL WALK YOU HOME

and I will walk you home

when there is no one else

and the birds 'round the park

won't even

move for you

when the ducks won't take

your bread

when your eyes tell you 

i am a hat

then you'll wish 

you loved me more

when you were

more, too.

BATTERING RAM

shiver blue, cold feet.

no more downhearted.

no longer tomorrow.

withdraw your battering ram

from the door of fate;

it was made of glass.

THE DIRECTIONS

said it needs light.

JOHN; A WIKIPEDIA ENTRY by Suzy Devere

Click the title above to go to Chris Killen's fantastic blog for 

Suzy Devere's entry on what a "John" is.  Read other entries

if you have time.   Add a meaning in the "comment" section if you

feel an entry is represented poorly.  Enjoy!

ps.  besides the post by suzy, his entry on "Cats" is my

favorite.

THE LENS I BORROW

today i wake to

sweet delgadina

dew on her brow

yellow sleep collecting in the corners

of her absent eyes

i roll over and

photograph her

precarious innocence 

with a lens i borrow

from hendrik kerstens.

(click on title to visit hendrikkerstens.com)

NOTEBOOK 2001

(to see image/words more clearly, double click on image)

CAPTIVE LOVE by Suzy Devere

New short story by Suzy up at The Beat On-Line Lit Zine

(click on Title to go directly to piece.)

HISTORY LIKE PEPPER III

these words are relics.

i am already gone.

HISTORY LIKE PEPPER II

darling, darling Lady!

eat it/drink it/smile w-i-d-e/suck you/fuck you/speak it/love it/fix

it/learn it/spit it/like it/hold it/kiss it/keep it/make it/lost it/threw it/

felt it/left it/bit it/wait it/out with it!

then sink it

deep

Lady!

History tastes like

SALT, baby, not

PEPPER!

--Suzy Devere

HISTORY LIKE PEPPER

it is no simple task

to get it all down

but it is no good

without it

i open my mouth

to protest

the danger

the odds of it all!

but nothing comes out

i will not object

history is 

like

the 

piece 

of pepper

left 

in the last sip

at the bottom

of my 

delicious 

sunday bloody mary

i will still savor

careful, Lady!

...get that pepper stuck 'tween yer teeth n' it could be complicated!...

i close my eyes

and vividly

appears

cum 

on your

boat race

wake

and think

"life"

swallow that

last bit

and put

the empty

glass down

--put yer glass down but don't slam it; you might 

not be done drinkin' tonight--

then

think

about all the

documents

schott's almanac

misses.

LADY LIBERTY

Lifting up Lady Liberty

She is my hood ornament

at once a joke

yet still my guide

She laughs

at the red lights I run

but stands still

when I get a ticket

She dances

when I steer crazy

yet comes undone

when I have not taken enough care

She is silly

She is Liberty

She is French

She is thin and tall and proud

She is my hood ornament

and always arrives before me.

*From the archives, c. 1992

PINKY TUSCADERO

She held my hand and it was the best

time of my little life!

Big cousin.  Big sister.  Big love.

She had big tits.  Wow.  Awe.

She had cool tunes and the little disc

to go inside the 45's.

Pretty and funny, like Pinky Tuscadero.

Ya' you fucking heard me.

Pinky Tuscadero.

Miss America was for farmgirls

and has-beens.

I wanted to be 

Pinky Tuskadero.

--Suzy D.

BABY IS GREEN

What happened?

On the plane 

I 

thought we were 

new

best friends?

THE UPDO

to be beautiful i wrapped my hair

in a ring on the top of my head

and pinned it tightly

hoping you would find my eyes

more alluring

free of all that hair

instead you said

"are those wrinkles on your forehead?"

i spent the rest of the night

trying to pin

the skin

from my face up

instead.

ALONE THEN

Alone then, with blood and vomit covering the bed, the pain in my belly growing worse.  Who to call?

I should eat, I think to myself.  Eat what?  What will go with this burning of my blood---lonely, lonely blood!!!---pushing through my body's tunnels, calling out for its chemical friends?  The popping of these thalo blue veins in my forehead, pulsing...the pulsing behind my knees, in my chest, behind my two marble eyes, glazed with tears only the forsaken and contemptable cry...

Nothing imaginable will go in this mouth...dirty mouth.  I want to be wrapped.  Take me in white with safety pins to tie my arms back.  I don't care!  Wrap me in felt and give me a bunny...I cannot keep my mouth shut.  Cannot stop yawning.  Cannot think.  Need to eat. 

What will I put in my body to mix with this longing in my throat to scream? My tears wet my neck, already covered in sweat, and I swat at them, my hands landing back on myself, for this is the burden of living.  Why, oh why, is this only up to me?  I am no longer human, I think.  I am no longer strong.

Yes, I wonder, what should I eat to go with this?

My hands grope a tabletop behind the couch and I finger a cheery yellow butterscotch, individually wrapped and shiny, like a sunny kiss pulled straight out of the fishbowl.  I unwrap it and think of the guests we never have that it was meant for, pop it in my mouth and hope to choke.

--Suzy Devere

IMAGINE THAT

I see the front right side of my car

drive itself straight into a telephone pole

scrunch like a worm on the move

then fold into itself like minute oragami

I see a pregnant belly, jutting out from me like a shelf

bulging in the center with something you want

more than you want me

something magical and I cry

I see my friends gathered around smoking

a big hit from a glass pipe and red walls

smells of meat cooked with prunes and spice

fish with red sauce and wine falls to the ground

I see a car with one light out coming straight towards me

its color and make obscured by the brightness

of streetlights and glare on my glasses and then...

I grip tightly and turn left, just before the 

light turns

red.

MORNING by Suzy Devere

(at Savage Manners On-Line.  Click on title above to go directly to piece.)

DEAR DIARY, 1987

rustling, like the sounds of trees brushing leaves against one another in the wind. but we were on a boat...there could be no sounds of trees here?  a clock, tick tock tick tock tick and the hum of air coming in from somewhere, a heavy breath, air in through his nose and out quickly. it was a game of pacing.  the fast or slow game of rates...so this is what i thought about; how life can float what seems immovable---things like my dread and fear, my slight limp left over from the fall that hollow, ugly day, even my hatred and anger---life can float them all.  but my love?  that heavy stump i wanted to uproot and give to another?  it stays put, firmly rooted, bound.  love.  it stays stuck like an anemone at the bottom of a deep sea.  it is as if love can absorb the very weight compiled of all the other things in life that float.  the burden of love?  the weight of love?  i cannot listen to myself say those words, everyman's words, the common talk of love.  stupid,  vapid descriptors.  but stuck?  i did know the heavy root that was mine i could not even starve to death on a boat in the middle of the waters of the world...

--suzy devere

YOU WILL FIND NO COMFORT HERE

this page is mine.  all mine.  to imagine endless affection from all around the world streaming in just for me.  to see in its blankness wars that have ended and vast oceans that have no waves--waters that are completely, entirely, amazingly still--asking permission from me before their massive bodies move.  this page is mine to formulate my plan of escape and engineer my own urban city.  in its blankness my mind traverses this page's widths, conjuring fascinating treasures--gifts for myself!--wrapped in hand painted paper while exquisite peacocks fan their feathers to impress me, and in its blankness i imagine, too, that I see clearly all that has ever eluded me and am reassured that those same opportunities still wait, here on this blank page, only for me...where has it gone? where has it gone? and now this beautiful blankness that was a clock with no hands that was possibility and all beauty that was to be mine, all mine, is limited by words that are my selfish desires?  oh, all is lost!  all is lost.

PATTAYA by Suzy Devere

(click on title to go straight to piece)

PIG ON A STICK

     

it took a while but eventually

i knew what it was i liked about boys.

i liked when they would go away.

when they were away

funny things seemed funnier

exaggerated on the telephone

or elaborated on

in long, handwritten letters

penned on strange things

like rolls of toilet paper

masking tape

even a random banana peel here and there

just for fun, just to see if it could be done

my favorite of all my pen-pal-loves

was much wittier and more artistic than me.

he wore big black glasses with tape in the middle

between his eyes

simply because it was so ridiculous

from him i learned the joy of the odd 

and easily got laugh

he was especially good at catching

the most uptight cunt off-guard

with his self-effacing absurdist behavior

and

we valued embarrassed gasps the most

i had a big smile but a quiet way about me 

often timid in groups 

i envied his ease

we were twelve and met at camp

happy to have money for stamps

glad to be rid of everyone around us

we wrote fabrications of our lives to each other

often including the entirely imagined

labeled as our own daily news

he always wrote me back

he often wrote me first

in response to the banana peel

he sent me a Texan "pig on a stick"

or so the envelope claimed 

but i was unsure

the inner contents remained unidentified

until his next letter arrived

explaining it had been

a glorified corn-dog

in an envelope.

WILDLY UNDONE

loose ends dragging

getting caught in

noonday traffic and

revolving doors

loose ends dirtied with 

filth and sludge

rats clinging

licking paws and asses

loose ends rife with memory

plagued by jump cuts

and slow fades

inserted to feed

nonlinear leeches

sucking

the marrow from

temporal memories and

turning them to nonsensical

dust

we pretend our loose ends

don't matter

yet

we can only fuck

because of them

you say nirvana 

to

the endless fuck

the endless shag

the endless lay

you say nirvana

but to me the endless fuck

is a rake with no leaves

wiry, hard

strong even!

but useless

a dirty tool 

that acts important

ripping away pink tissue

with brutal authority

a rake with no leaves.

PILES AND MILES OF DUST

Small bones breaking

horses hooves galloping 

staccato

over dry 

cracked 

ground

dust

swirls up like a greek chorus

to answer the pounding

of those heavy steps

dust 

visible again

and

the wind moves it

across my line of sight

now it spreads

wildly in every direction

i want to wash my dry hands

my head shakes side to side

side to side

a weathered finger pressed 

hard

over my lips

i float back to 

a desert i ran in

a long time ago

i climb in and out

of irrigation ditches

sunken into fields

the colour of my flaxen hair

barren yellow cream fields

dirty nails / hair in braids

who will run through those

piles 

and 

miles

of dust 

to greet me

to welcome me home

if not you?

But this is.

Everything is not about you.

It's shocking, isn't it?

That I know this about you

from all the way over here?

i would never go out

one foot forward

one foot forward

a slight wind

some deep sonic hum

a little bubbling

of voices

and water

car engines

words that are

only sounds

broken by that

slight wind

and space

a bird's flapping

wings as he snatches

the bread from

the cement in front of me

with his beak

white sailboats

and ripples that flicker

people speckle my landscape

like black pixels in a pastel field

and there is this sensation

this awareness that i am

transparent

i am alone

one foot forward

just take another step

it will be alright

i remind myself

no one can see

as i walk

how alone

i am.

i mean

sure

they can see

i am alone

as i walk

but they 

cannot

really

know

how alone

i am.

at least that

is what i

tell myself

because

if they could

i would

never

go out.

BLACK ROOM by Suzy Devere

(click to go straight to piece)

A DAY AT THE RACES by Suzy Devere

(click on title to go straight to piece)

too short to hide

i never wanted to hear

i told you so

i only wanted to hear

i love you so.

Brine

saltless shifting tide

hide the shell from the sunlight

smooth the swell

after the insight

of pain's dark deliveries.

float through the sea

some subscribers of untold loss

kiss courtesy to me

while underlayers toss

essence of brine to top.

it has fallen away

all hazen gloomy grey

but shell still buried deep

ocean's keep.

From the archives, c.1993

Empty People II

Empty people seek empty rooms?

fuck you

and your 

pretend

friends

who fill your 

pretend

world

and make you

THINK

wrongly

that you

1.) have such a full room you can judge?

2.) that you can judge me?

3.) that you can judge my room!

4.) that there's something wrong, anyway, with an empty room?

I don't buy it.

Empty rooms, if that's what I "seek," are my pleasure.

And they sure beat havin' shit company.

and ps. it's not even empty--it's got a chair in it??

and ps. 2. what do "oft" and "nought" even mean? and who even talks like that?

sorry to be such a bitch, but you should really check yourself, missy.

-Suzy Devere

Empty People

Empty people

oft do not realize 

they seek

...so find...

again

and

once again

nought but

empty rooms.

Dare I be happy?

a glass passed

'twixt cup and lip

gobbled

gobbled

bullishly

gulped down

one good leg

left

it will out

it will out

dare I 

be happy?

I do.

I do.

Tired of the Sun/Dismantled

"I cannot bother

to be dismantled,"

she said.

Worn thin and weary,

snakeskin peeled

off the spikes of her shoes,

the heat had melted her

opinion of the sun.

"There is  oh-so-much-else!  

underneath

a cool moon"

she sighed.

"Blasted heat...

I cannot bother

to be..." her voice trailed off.  

"I cannot bother to be

dismantled.  Taken apart

and rolled around like

a barrel fallen from a 

truck in the 

desert...contents

unknown, abandoned by

owner, no destination.

No, I cannot bother to be

dismantled."

She didn't realize the

irony of her remarks.

The roundness of her

torso morphing into a

lonely barrel with every

word she spoke; the

idea of being separated

part by part from a more

meaningful whole--a

whole that made sense--

already showing in her

movements and on her

face.  Dismantled was

the perfect description

of her, and she'd come up

with it

herself.

The Idiot's Discovery

Nearly spitting, the lady

came closer.  She put her hands

on my chest, her lips near my face, 

and with her tongue just

to the outside of my ear, that 

bitch breathed words 

she knew would pull me out.

"The secret of a woman's 

latent garden does not unfurl

for gnarled paws like yours,"

she seethed.

Sharp and angry,

ripping at ground,

pulling bloom

from vine,

tearing root

from tree;

I was shocked

to see her

open up 

her legs

her center

her self

sweetly

for someone else.

Mine was the Idiot's Discovery.