Things Rosy – Aurora Phoenix

PFINGSTROSEN

Monika Rinck

 

in allen phasen der faltung nisten die büschel,
geballte pakete, dicht, eng und stumm
hockt in knospen das drängen nach fetten
vermoddelten zentren in purpur und/oder weiß
wohnen rücken an rücken hinübergebogene blüten
auf krautigen stengeln und blühen sich rund.
als es zu regnen angefangen hat, ich am halm
in meiner großen hand den schweren kopf
gehalten habe, zog kindheit in die feuchte luft,
spitze schreie, habenwollen, pfingstgelockt
zum hang geworden. sehnsuchtsarten stiegen auf
und tauchten wieder ab. wie ich das flüstern
ihrer vielen tausend blüten hörte, wollte ich
die regennasse rose strubbeln, knüllen, fleddern
wollte ihr die blüten rupfen, um mich werfen,
und zertreten, freunde rufen, kommt und schaut
das fette große blütending, was ich da hab
katzenkopfrund weiß und ohne augen, ich, ich,
ich will den katzenkopf, der keine katze ist
durch’s irre rudel meiner wünsche treiben
kaputtgemacht und angefaßt, nein unversehrt
lass ich die hehren rosen reglos starr inmitten
jener bahnen stehn durch welche kindheit schnellt.

 

Things Rosy

in all phases of finding fault with that which I hide under bushels

I think of the pecks upon the cheek

slobbered in drunken barroom moments

those verboten moments of purple gazes/ under water

when I wreck and I wreck all that has not been blessed

of feminine strength and the bludgeon of seeing red,

as is the right of angels in wide brimmed hats, I am cool

in my sunglasses that craft my life in their mirrored lenses

exalting what has been, as kindness in the face of failure,

spritzed with glee, woolen underwear, finger lockets

that hang on our words, the sutured stitches of

our widest taut paths. when I am flustered

in the pulsing veins of the bluest hordes, I roll

with renegades wearing crimson glasses, kneading, floundering

among with aisles of the ruby slippers, and with warfare,

and regret, women refuse, orders and shouts

that fit with gross pretending, as all I had was

catastrophic and blithely undone, I, I,

I will then catastrophize, knowing the cat’s tongue

which is rude no matter how hard I try

all is kaput and angst, no universal

woman am I when I wear rose colored glasses and lipstick

swearing that I babble truth while the children run.

Published by

Aurora Phoenix

I write as Aurora Phoenix. Nine months ago my world shattered. Unexpectedly and dramatically arrested, I have been incarcerated ever since, as I await the unbearably slow machinations of the system. Devoid of verbal communication that is unmonitored, pen and paper have served as my truest outlet for grief, fear and angst. Armed with toilet paper for intermittently copious tears, my motions experience and reflections are PaperMate poured. In this chapter of my life, I write.

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