The Splash Dabbler: An Inky Splatter

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Red Rage

By Laura/princess-peach-pie


I’m currently a female,

Of a certain age,

With hormones going crazy,

Causing my red rage.


I’m usually quite civil,

Objective and genteel,

But now I’m quite psychotic,

Eating crap for every meal.


I cry at any comment,

I snap at any smirk,

I yell when people cross me,

I won’t do any work.


My tummy is in spasm,

Nausea running free,

And all to bear the reminder,

Of my current fertility.


My face is pizza-riffic,

My hair, greasy and lank,

My ass, beyond recognition,

I’ve never felt so rank.


Just fend me off with chocolate,

And nod with sympathy,

Or you shall feel the wrath,

Of a girl with PMT.


Submitted Sept. 9, 2006

Lyrical Webbing
By White Coat

Once upon a time the story often goes,
weaving tales of magic, wonderment, potential
dreams of happiness submerged within layers
of adjectives, nouns, verbs. Volumes speak of
thousand year old histories that resonate within
my ears, deafening to the point of pure silence
that silence that drips heavy with imagery,
drowning a reality not willing to be lived. Plots
twist and thicken, with the new characters, ideas
storylines that get woven in, creating a hearty
stew within the mind  whetting the appetite,
causing our neurons to salivate at the opportunity
to devise more otherworldly creations.

Individual lyric intertwine themselves forming
a meshwork thick and dripping with the velvet
dew of irresistible idea  trapping within its
insidious webbing the innocent imagination
like a spiders web ensnaring its prey. Those
delicate lines tiptoe their way across the plot
threads, easing their way, gingerly so as to
keep the suspense building. Deftly the plot lines
begin weaving together, bringing the dance to its
climax  wrapping, entwining faster and faster
until that final line binds the package neatly;
finally drawing the conclusion tight  but when is
The end really an ending?

Submitted August 9, 2006

Candlelit Chaos
     By Poeticsoul
View Crimson blood rivers 
run along cold stone 
the heat of the flames 
has fallen behind 
but still a factor 
. . . . . . . . . . 
Oh how candle wax burns 
when dropped on 
peach skin 
from above 
and the receiver moans 
partly in pain 
(but more in) 
Erotic pleasure 
. . . . . . . 
scalpel sharp touch 
pierces pale flesh 
another river is released 
her orgasm


     Submitted Sept. 29, 2006

Placebo Sun

     By David Owen


Moth dust beaten, soft ashes between fingertips,

held blackly against inked aerials on a blushing canvas.

Hot air balloons, plump chaotic teardrops ebb

beneath distant hills to meet the sun’s demise.


A butterfly, wings speckled by a lunar eclipse

lands deftly on the net curtains before window close,

laments for the moths that heave against the glass

in search of the warm sting of a placebo sun.


Summer-blue, she lay with me that mild night,

blew gently toward that proud unerring butterfly.

Clasped hands, she straddled a man at half-light,

and asked, ‘tell me a story about us.’


     Submitted Sept. 15, 2006

get ready. 
     By RLM

a small tree leans toward where the sun was yesterday, remembering hope and the thrumming sensation of something to live for.  the sun looks onto the world with a wistful what-if, jealous of what it must feel like to be alive. 
god sighs with his head in his proverbial hand, wondering what nonsense must sound like, casually fleshing his thoughts into animal games, hundreds of teapots, tuesday next month, a formal goodbye.  the universe smiles. begin again. tiny virtues spring forth like dandelions in your memory, bright and archetypal, leading you home from the cold.  you watch the ground go by underneath you and you remember.  this is what it looks like; this is how i feel. is how i feel.  how i feel. how it feels to be alive.  animal games.  hundreds of whispers.  a perfect reply.
     Submitted August 16, 2006

By Splinteredwalls

Stained glass wings
like jewels fit for kings
adorn a butterfly on the sill

of my kitchen window. Delicate and still
he rests from the hot summer sun in the shadow’s chill.
Fragile legs like velvet potpourri.

Elegant asymmetry!
Fly! Fly free…

Submitted August 16, 2006

Beautiful Sound (Mike Asleep on the Phone)

Your breathing has never sounded so beautiful
Until now I've
Only dreamt of you still,
Dreaming of me.
In the middle our bed
We lay, me wrapped by you
And tonight is no different,
Even if you sleeping on the phone brings me to tears.

     Submitted August 1, 2006

What It Means To Hate America
     By Splinteredwalls

 During the drive to work, the morning news plays on National Public Radio.


Thirty children were killed today in an Iraqi bombing.


Nearly half of Asia’s 1.27 billion kids live in poverty.


 Every day, 300 Filipino children die of preventable or curable diseases like pneumonia, diarrhea and measles.


The day continues as usual, staring at computers in an air-conditioned office, selling PVC fences to rich customers in Hawaii, unchanged.


Numbers are empty.











Today, an Iraqi child, age 7, held her brother’s limp hand as their mother scooped his shrapnel-encrusted body from the dirt road and buried her face in her child’s chest. Tears of devastation fell from the girls large brown eyes, creating pockets like craters in the dust. The air smelled of gun powder. Dust filled her lungs. Her body shook with vibrations of revulsion. Eventually, the shock will wear off and she will grow to hatehatehate America and its filthy bombs.


Ten miles down an unpaved road in Thailand, a 5-year-old child of thin skin and protruding ribcage carries a bucket of water home from the cow trough. His mother waits at home breastfeeding his baby sister. There is dirt on her cheeks from smearing away the tears of a mother who can not afford to feed her starving children. The hut must withstand another storm tonight and is already leaking from the roof. The air smells of feces and unwashed hair. The children will grow up to hatehatehate Americans who pay to toss half of their food in the trash.


There is a slanted tent where a sick child lies dying on a tattered dirty blanket. Her limbs are week from dehydration. She coughs all night, keeping the other children awake. Her mother comes to hold her hand and tell her bedtime stories. Her little sister curls up beside her at night when she is afraid of the dark. Children cry all night. The noise is unbearable. In the morning, the tent workers will walk though and carry out the dead bodies so they don’t begin to rot. This little girl has pneumonia, a curable disease. She may live, she may not. If she does, she will grow up to hatehatehate Americans who are too stubborn to see a doctor, Americans who have a simple cure for pneumonia.




It is Friday afternoon. We listen to NPR on the way home from work so we feel like good citizens.


Uganda has a total of 1.7 million orphans.


8.4 million children are in slavery, trafficking, debt bondage and other forms of forced labor, forced recruitment for armed conflict, prostitution, pornography and other illicit activities.


One third of Third World children’s identity remains a mystery.


Submitted August 1, 2006

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