Floetry

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Braie Jen

When you are close,

Your aromatic life force next to mine,

I sense a presence.

It is a matriarch as old as the sound the wind makes when it shakes old growth cedar,

The eyes of Eostre weeping from storms of a spring that’s nearing the season of Easter.

She has a son who lost his goddess to that storm’s confusion,

A daedalic dynamic ripped apart by society’s justifiable obsession with drug psychosis and delusion.

If you have a child when you are suffering from addiction,

You will lose them.

A cryptic community of selfish sins is subject to a government grift while you’re unslept, unclear, and thin,

A semi-lucid actor or actress may be dripping in the beauty of love, life and the art of illusion.

But they are subject to these familial intrusions.

Those devils with tithes of their own to play and pay,

An economic structure that preys on the weak,

Week after week, after week.

But this girl’s smile was borne of Medusa’s glare,

And on each and every day it required a stare of a rarity indescribable.

She could send men to a place of cold stone where everything under her sun mattered little,

Her son’s soul crippled.

A beauty like this can leave your last lover’s memory belittled.

The riddle of her back porch inspired scorched ghosts to be ready to give up their best faces all laced up with all the gravity and levity they could possibly summon,

Especially after three nights and three days spent cooking themselves in urban ovens,

Pharmacologically stubborn.

For a few moments on each of these nights techno-upped, sleazy, needy, and sweaty,

A hurricane goddess’s grin walks into the room and the crowd becomes ready,

For more Braie steady.

The act of simply watching her transforms the minds of the men into committing the sin of asking “what will she let me?”

“And how much of my future will she bet me?”

But that’s a lot of pressure for Easter’s goddess.

A boiling pot of snake oil and crystalline bubbles puddling above a fire,

Makes a decent man trade his honour for dishonest and godlessness ;

A self-miring campaign of receiving and repelling liar after liar after liar.

All heroes are retired in shame,

As she is drawn into game after game after game.

But her being the inspiration that she is,

She rises to each occasion with an invocation of self-worth, unearthed and inspired by her story of her young man’s birth.

The girth of this artificial community becomes tried, tired and bested.

The men don’t care about her or her son.

They are here for the sex, the drugs and desires requested.

For so many,

The hurt, the screaming, and the heavy falling down on her doors,

Pouring whatever it takes to show her that she’s their deity,

Comes from a place where their cravings are shallow, greedy, toxic and is not interested in the sound of a second he.

Sounds too much like we.

She doesn’t want to leave her friends and her position of atrophy.

This is now her family.

But,

Strategically,

She becomes more and more ready by the minute.

There is a limit to what she can pretend to be.

And any real relationship comes with a contingency,

Her, the boy and any man set to steal her heart makes three.

A lifeboat on fire in a sea of unpreparedness.

Some men that surround and make sounds that they genuinely care regardless of this precipice,

Contentiousness for a fight they don’t even know how to win.

But as Braie’s hair falls down like grace,

It becomes a ladder for lifting enchantresses and enchanters to a place they want to be beside her.

They don’t think about how this divides her.

Eventually, the strength of that rope breaks,

Faking the fun turns to hate,

And blame turns in on itself,

Draining self-worth and belief in the power of that young man’s birth.

She becomes a blur,

A whirlwind of her,

A girl that watches and lurks through all of the hurt,

A pot of gold stirred, baked and burnt.

But this goddess has the strength.

She has the will.

She knows the smell of the kill and the blood that matters so much more than the shrill water that shatters,

As it is offered and offered and offered,

A sacrifice to herself on a golden dawn drawing on long shadows and exiting with the exhale.

Escape is on her mind now,

No more will she be willfully blind now.

She must find the time now.

How?

When she’s too tired to shout and doubt will no longer leave her.

She will not submit to the story that sits in the dark and waits to be her.

She will rip that page out and burn it just to leave her.

Her fate must be that face she just has to remember,

But her heart rests too far left of the centre.

This is a queen unable to lift her sceptre.

I can feel this lying next to her.

Her boy Tristan’s smile is her sunshine,

A child that can bring love, life and laugh lines for a lifetime.

It’s hard to see him now in the night-time.

Can’t get up on time at the right time.

The days slipped away like the high tide line.

She stammers,

Then moments of recognition break down the apartment walls with a hammer,

Flailing falls crash down to the floor beside bits and pieces of the hallway where they all sit,

Hiding in the washroom,

She’s a bit too sad to be the glamour.

The place is always empty with people, faces, places and objects clustered and cluttered.

Braie’s lonely but never alone,

One hundred and one phone conversations that roam,

Without a single connection or corroboration that her heart is breaking.

Braie is emotionless and shaking.

Her home is cleaned by strangers day after day after day,

But it still smells like a tomb of decay.

Never high enough for the lie to be forgotten,

The life that came from her life begotten and then lost in,

The storm.

Every other need gets delivered on a platter,

Shattering her focus,

On the one that was meant to be the closest.

When she hears someone really actually cares,

It is all just hocus pocus.

But some know exactly what they are doing,

Pursuing a chance at undoing,

What she’s using that causes the ungluing,

The life she is choosing.

They are trying to teach her to care,

For herself,

For him,

For anything.

Staring at the clock, they wonder where is she now?

They are scared of the answer.

And so is she,

Her son makes three.

But anything,

Anything,

Should be attempted to pull this goddess free.

Open her light and empower her to see what it is she can be,

Because it is her nature.

Braie nurtures and labours for her faked family,

It is toxic to deny her place where it has got to be.

A mother,

A matriarch,

It’s a lot to be.

For Braie,

It will bring her the power to overcome and overcame,

All that is denied her,

The mother,

The leader,

Inside her.

Nothing will ever take her down again,

If the universe lends just one more chance to attain her family at last.

So little time left,

Leaving minute after minute after minute,

Slipping away so fast.

Eostre comes in the springtime,

It is her strongest season.

Please allow her the patience to listen and learn from these reasons,

Scrawled out stark by one with the blood of his own soul’s lesions,

Spoken in confusion,

Cracked but not broken by lost days and learned, leaning evenings.

She must learn to leave them all behind,

Fuck that world and its grind.

To a goddess on her bent throne,

Please don’t go back home

That house.

Those friends,

Are only a loan.

Braie,

You have not reached the end.

A sunny Easter waits for you just around the bend.

I can feel it.

This will be your time to rise,

A resurrection once and for all and again,

Do it for Braie,

For Tristan,

And for Jen.

Should you fail,

I will always be here,

Your friend.

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