Thursday, July 5, 2012

My Furious Fast and Fickle Friend

My Furious Fast & Fickle Friend
My cancer wanes so have your lend
While just as much with promise lies
To reach a hand toward disguise

My furious fast and fickle friend
When feeling fails try to pretend
So once the curtain falls you’ll see
Applause throughout your dynasty

For feelings fast and fisted tight
Turn jaundice in the lazy spite
Of Ungrateful men who lie to take
What she would rather not forsake

My furious fast and fickle friend
Into defeat your dallies bend
For what is left when trust does send
It’s sorry self toward no friend?

Angela Sidoti Copyright © 2006

I went to war My Love

I’m back or you are
Where we left space immediate
With my bandaged head and my shrapnel shame
Walking wounded

You see my eyes closed
Can’t share with you those shapes those lights
Or what I fell through heavy on my own
Facing forward

While you were gone friend
I marched to war with demons you don’t know
And battled with less stoicism than need
Bleeding plenty

Now you’re back and here
I cannot share with you the failure or the courage
Which led the charge through a thousand
Traitor Treasures

My gaze blank and difficult
With a veneer of pleasantry and affection tempered
By the memory I fail to share with you or with your
Failed attendance

I went to war my love
I bled and caught the bloodspill along my bitten tongue
Of casualties you cannot know in combat
All unmoved (removed)

Angela Sidoti © 2011

- - 11/11/2011 - -

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Self Control

Self control is not calling out to your sisters in the street
Because it’s uncouth
It is pretending you are full because it’s rude
To take a second slice
It is pacing instead of picking up the phone
To call an ex lover
And not running away when they’re nipping at your heels
For the sake of composure
Self control is holding back tears that might avalanche
Into solid fits
The biting of nails that substitute the hard spitting
Of unpleasantness
And a million other things we swap and bargain over
“I’ll give you a heart attack for staying even though it hurts”
“And some cancer if you’ll hold this guilt a little longer for me”
“Or a big gold star because you learned restraint”
“I’ll pin it on my heart disease; I’ll lay it by my sadness strong, all for you and self control”
“For you”

If self control is command over you, then why is it control?
If I am one person, then how can I control myself?
Self control is recruiting schizophrenia for a suicide mission
Hiring a hit man – and the target?

Self control is hiding feelings so when you really need them,
You won’t find a single one
Staying at the desk although your heart is swollen and your brain bust
Because it’s not knock-off yet
Self control is mistaking masochism for fortitude
And running some gauntlet
Of bruising illusion and sorry stray animals picked up for pity’s sake
And forgotten soon after
Self control is staying in a job you hate, and waking with a bruised brain every day
But staying because you don’t leave one job until you have another
Self control is forcing down coffee because there’s no time
For resting

Angela Sidoti © 2006

--- 20 October 2006 ---

The Breaking

Described by author Peter FitzSimons as a true, adults-only version of Lord of the Flies meets A Night Mare on Elm Street, the story of Batavia takes place in 1629.  The story of Batavia also takes place amongst the elements and grace of nature; in waters as unforgiving as the tortured souls of those brutally murdered by the diabolical mutineers, in winds that whip as ruthlessly through human skin and flesh as their shining blades did, and on islands as desolate as the humanity that was present on the day of their massacres.

Screams travel through the sea breeze gaining speed and shrillness until a gale of such proportion has amassed a rage so pure that the sails it assaults can only hope to keep their stitches.  It whips through the deck encouraging the growing rivulets of blood to divide and travel like the roots of a tree straight into hell.  And the ocean, once still and compliant, on high tide on the stubborn reef, throws the boat back and forth so that the victims are impatiently rocked like neglected babies, too rough, too hurriedly, their faces countlessly swung and bashed from side to side against the woody pillow of their final sleep.  A woman, not twenty, and pregnant lies inside the darkened cabin in a metallic stench of stale air and blood that laden the air with an evil that even the invasive gale cannot blow away.  Like cradle-cap, her hair and now her scalp too, are worn away from the constant tossing of her head which hangs from the flesh of the back of her neck where the quick blade lingered momentarily before hurrying to another victim.  Her child waits.

The sea spews its salt spray onto the deck as though to both preserve and destroy the awful scene.  It lands in splodges on the bloodstained deck, dissipating the gore so that liquid red runs thin while little pieces of congealed blood break away and float before being beached again like jelly fish on the wood grain.  So many secrets already held in her.  Like the night she took into her buoyancy the plan hatched by Jacobsz, his savage whispers into a willing ear, stolen and carried by the good-natured night breeze, and then bounced across her before finally, she, the guileless sea, would take them into her.  Surrounding them.  There they floated, not judged, but stark in their true form.  Magnified by her strength.  And later she would also hold some of the bodies these whispers would produce, and they would float peaceful in her knowledge, calmed by her fair witness.  Hair curling in her current, clothes billowing in a beautiful ebb and flow, small air bubbles sliding off of lashes like exclamation marks to frightened eyes, before rising to join the breezes above.  The sea would become them all.

The mutton birds squawked in terror sensing the carnage that was to come.  Dumbfounded islands awaited the spilling of these visitors, the Batavia's human cargo, onto their shores, and later, their sands cleaned the blood in a slow and unsuccessful forgetting.    The islands each ruffled and flapped about like a bird frightened from its roost.  Resisting the tragedy that was to stage itself on their pristine skins.  And forever mark their landscape.

The Batavia.  Her maiden voyage of unparalleled horror.  Raped, torn, spoiled.  Easy prey for the unsuspecting reef and its choral blades and now her eyes polluted by a far crueler massacre than her own, her woody countenance hit repeatedly by the foul echo of a mutinous scheme to produce still more death.  Her coming out into society was marked by her early Morning awakening, the cruelest realisation of her womanhood, and the killing off of innocence with a sunrise which would blind her with too much that is stark and irreversible.

Her body flexed and groaned with the murderous words that assaulted her ear.  And then amongst that, the ordinary, the flesh and breath noises of the unsuspecting; a mother chastising her son for pulling his sister's hair, the clatter of dishes, cries from children, and carried by the wind, the deep calls of men as they worked the deck.  These haunted her almost as much as the depraved whisperings of Jacobsz and Cornelisz.  Therefore as she ran aground that early morning, she found momentary peace, and groaned gratefully as she surrendered and broke herself upon the coral. 

Lucretia Jansz, lovely, womanly, and married, if she were able, would have done the same.  A silver shadow woman clutching the ship's taffrail, white knuckled and shaking, believing it might save her.  Eyes as lifeless as the dead who she sincerely wished to join, Lucretia, like the Batavia, was left a broken woman.

[entry by Angela Sidoti in the 2011 Random House Batavia Competition]
Angela Sidoti © 2011

Monday, February 14, 2011

Oh you faltering fake and unhappy ending

Oh you faltering fake and unhappy ending
Obvious, stated as a disclaimer, in italics and small in print
None the less there and available for consideration
By the careful, the paranoid, the clever.
Not for me this small and ungrateful prick
In the trustful, luck-full, optimistic mind
Of me

For I am stupid and willing like a domestic animal
Stolen nature fighting the rule it is grown against
Thrown against, loaned against
I am there and absent in my care for self
A bad bang repeater, deleater, he-beat-her
To a pulp of disappointment, self hate sad and dragged anointment
When the rail you lean against, scream against
Folds down and fallen you lay cheated
Hurt and bruised like flower petals in a careless fist

It was blissed, kissed and left for dead or else a gist
Slow coming, like her
Arriving too late for the rest, the best
She thinks she can do
While getting done, it’s just fun shoots the gun
Of her masochistic, too sadistic – lack
And sits heavy like stone chilled bone
in the home of “not there”

Angela Sidoti © 2006

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The stomach cloud

The stomach cloud
Sinking like stoney silence
Unfinished business
Or unforgiven delay

A scattered herd
Running scared but not over
Dust ridden movement
On a still, sunless day

A mouth overworked
Scarring as spoken sad
Light laden truths
Cover a dense unrhyming word

Or eyes seeing nothing
Refracting with their light
A massacre of form
Floating above earth-beds

Angela Sidoti © 2011

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Something Soft…

Something soft, like a face held open
Something soft, like feeling hope again
A gentle word, an unknown phrase, an insight into things held close, sometimes too close.
Something soft sees the possibility of all things given life beyond their likelihood so that they stand like great trees of chilli, bountiful, red and passionate. Through any season.
Something hard, like hidden goodness
Something hard, like cultivating defence
The shiny edge of an unknowable world, a slippery step forward into obvious disaster
Something hard sees the death in all things before their life and the futile, the frail, the fickle, as ordinary. When they are not.
In truth all these things bounce from scene to scene, dependant on the extras, necessary for authenticity to reign.
In truth great chilli trees are grown not by observation but by dropping red to the earth and rotting.
In truth songs are made more for the musician than the muse
And unheard, will remain with sweet words and symbols quarried

In truth, something soft is a mythic saviour, a sister to her reverse, a belief and brief but beautiful sensation.

Angela Sidoti © 2006