for her
DESCRIPTION
stacy l. welch (1973-2011). in memoriamTRANSCRIPT
3
Grown Children
Grown Children
You think utilizing my Children
as Ploys will make
my fingers stop from typing
unbearable Truths of you.
Self-projected
into Characters
which aren't even You
(I've been saving those).
But
what will you do
when they reach adulthood?
Until then Motherfuckers,
you may keep me capped -
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boiling inside the bottle
that can't be thrown out
into your Sinning Seas.
In 7 years
it will boil over
and pop that fucking cork
Permanently
Free.
"Suck that Bitch!"
Copyright 2011
Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.
5
• Allotment
A lapse in time
can be the creation
of another time,
which only exists
if one brings
into being
il'lumanitively
surreal moments.
If we transit
into this undefined
unmeasured space,
it is all ours
to dance
our mentality
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through -
rupturing strife.
Copyright 2011 Trixy
Stacy L. Welch, J.D.
The Purchase
Children are born Innocent
we manipulate and conceive
for they do not understand
the nifty expensive donations
are only to buy that innocence
away until they understand
that what happened-you did.
It may be months or years or days
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or maybe never if you purchased
brain-washing for your advantage
to mold with both your dirty palms
shaky covered in filthy cotton candy
paid for by a father to hide torment
he will always detest with a smirk.
Did you ever question how they'd
be if that Ferris Wheel dumps you
within it spinning you around until
you're trapped into one of its' cages
or fell barely missing a few more
seats to tangle you around them:
Round and Round and Round.
Copyright 2011 Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.
(All Rights Reserved)
8
• One must Be Poisoned to Poison
One must be Poisoned to Poison
which takes knowing you are poisoned
to end the poisoning of our ignorance,
cortar la garganta de los instigadores!
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(Cut the throat of the Instigators.)
Empty those seedlings from your pockets -
throw them into our bottomless sewage,
que ha plantado mucho no puede restaurar
(you've planted too much to restore)
till our bones are dried we will scrape.
Be aware of your actions of idiocy,
show bravery to realize and recognize
them as your own self-disposition
Il crepitio in un continuum rotto ha perso -
(Crackling into a broken continuum, lost).
Copyright 2011 Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.
(English, Italian, and Spanish
European/Spanish utilized although stated in
15
TALISMAN
When I was light enough
to land on a nasturtium leaf
I brewed a talisman
behind the kitchen door.
Fumes flared from the flower-horns,
singeing the morning.
I pickled my heart in the laundry trough
and pegged it out to dry.
I sealed it in a locket,
the grey, shrunken clot
that I air now,
seeking the thread of a red pulse.
By Marian Webb.
21
CLOCK
The ticking of a clock
pitters perpetually on my bedhead,
though the clock has gone.
The ticking skitters
up and down the wood-grain
like a mouse scurrying
everywhere the clock was set,
fluttering time like a tiny tin-can
tied to its skinny tail,
flicking the clicking in my ear,
tricking me asleep like a ghostly heart,
hurrying past midnight
into darkening morning.
I huddle under cover, afraid of the evil eye.
The hours swell with omens.
A streetlamp fades.
Time, a phantom ticking at my head
flitters in the rising noise of dawn.
By Marian Webb.
32
...
-Tenemos que ir a América, aquí no hacemos nada, no aprecian el arte, dicen
que somos unos vagabundos.- dijo Duncan.
-Ya he estado en América; he estado con dos sudamericanos.
-No, eso no vale. Me refiero a viajar. Te mueres por ir a conocerla.
-A quién.
-A tu artista favorita.
-La tierra de las oportunidades, ¿no? ¿Ir a Maine?
-No, a California. Haremos un tour, y de paso, vendes tus pinturas allí.
-Tú crees que mis pinturas no valen nada.
-No. Nunca me dejas decir nada sobre lo que haces. Si digo algo y meto la
pata… ufff… me matas…
-Ni siquiera te gusta Picasso. ¡Por no hablar de Jackson Pollock!
Francesca dudó un momento si entregarle el regalo que le había comprado con
los pocos ahorros que tenía, un disco de su grupo favorito. Era supersticiosa,
siempre contaba hasta tres. El tercer disco de la fila. No estaba más nuevo ni
los colores eran más brillantes; era simplemente el que VALÍA. Así que lo cogió,
lo pagó y lo trajo a casa.
-Vamos a California.
-Ya, CAmerica. ELLA me dará con la puerta en las narices.
-Es tu artista viva favorita, y tiene tu edad. Aprende, aprende. Además, el
mundo se ha vuelto tan pequeño… Podemos ir a cualquier parte, sweetheart.
Los artistas son tu verdadera familia, todos estáis conectados…
-Ya, como las cuerdas enredadas de ENNEAD de Eva Hesse.
-¿Ves? Todos han ido a América.
-Eran otros tiempos… Ahora todo ha fracasado.
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-Come onnnnnn!!!!
-Ya. Todos estamos liados con todo el mundo. Todos se lían con todos en esta
ciudad de mierda… What a mess! ¿Y si no entiende mi inglés?
-Un abrazo lo entiende todo el mundo.
Francesca le dio su regalo y un beso, al fin y al cabo era su cumpleaños, no
tenía por qué ser tan dramática. No hay que ser cruel con quien se ama.
-Love me- suplicó Francesca.
-Ya te amo, idiota.- y Duncan la abrazó.