Dentist Visit

Go on and rub your hands
with glee, as you glimpse
the rising ivory throne
of sugar-coated complacency.

Go on and warm that marble
with your acid-coated ass,
as you shout orders to invade
the pink gummy castle of heaven –

Go ahead – do anything you want!
In fact, I’ll not stop you
from trying to evict
the brittle Crown Prince at all
(since he is well past his age)

because I will enjoy watching you
burn your ass on the drill
of He Who Must Not Be Named,
shining hero of the white-masked ascendancy!

© Zelda Reville


The Good Day

Amazing story by Christina Strigas.



I found my grandfather’s funeral program in the junk drawer, looking for batteries to put in the remote-control car my son had just unwrapped for Christmas. I found it underneath the Chinese take-out menus, phone books and old coupons; he was Xeroxed on the front in black and white, a young 18-year-old version I had never met with a full head of hair in a Navy uniform. The duration of his life was scrawled underneath his picture like an expiration date—good from 1926-2004.

My grandfather—William Mark Adler the third—died five years ago from prostate cancer, three days after Adam’s birth. His death was expected, like a long-awaited foreclosure on a house. Cancer had been a ruthless landlord, cutting the last of his cognitive abilities off like lights, evicting him from his body one day too soon; so that when my wife, Lydia, laid his two-day-old grandson on his chest, he…

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Sandcastles — kashiana

sandcastles in the sun are you willing to call it fun? sandcastles with a moat does creativity flourish by rote? sandcastles that glisten pride may i match the depth of your stride? sandcastles sculpted with bare handed care will you knead my heart with similar flare? sandcastles that repair and replenish can the aquamarine mirror my tears with similar flourish? […]

via sandcastles — kashiana

An Argument Against Vegetables (And Other Green, Living Stationary Things)

Daybreak marks the moment
where plants switch sustenance
from oxygen to carbon dioxide,

quietly braking their
carbon footprint monitors
as we continue our sins in the night.

Unseen by sleeping eyes, disregarded by mouths
who strain to be heard in this
cacophony of the nocturnal jungle,

they quietly sift
through minute air particles
and other mickey mouse molecules,

picking out soot, dust and dirt
with the tiniest fingers
invisible to the vulgar eye.

All this, while patiently
and cruelly rooted
to anchors and missing keys –

The smog stings our eyes,
burns our throats and
makes us run for the nearest purifier,

but there’s no change
indicated in that
almost smiling green.

Listen. We refrain
from consuming meat
because they are living,
breathing beings;

so why shouldn’t we
not eat vegetables or
anything green and stationary,

since their imposed silence
is not an acceptable refrain
for happy consent?

© Zelda Reville

Credit must be given to a friend who stumped me in a furious debate regarding personal food choices. I rest my case…

Blood Into Ink: Your Writing Wanted — Brave and Reckless

The curators of Blood Into Ink are seeking guest writers to share their stories about the struggles and triumphs faced by trauma survivors. We welcome the writing of women and men who have lived through sexual abuse, rape, physical abuse, emotional abuse, child neglect, emotional abuse, domestic violence and other forms of trauma. We believe […]

via Blood Into Ink: Your Writing Wanted — Brave and Reckless

Ear Piercing

Kohl-lined eyes;
a surgically sewn button nose.
Neck wrinkles? No, more like rings of Venus –

Bitten blueberry pout;
the slow brush against unsure skin.
A blue latex-gloved hand smiles, undulating.

The familiar smell of stinging antiseptic:
cold, clinical, full of expectations –
then the crack of pain

as the piercing gun breaks the skin.
A gentle coo: kisses first,
then urgent promises.

Ugly deed all over, poignancy
echoes warmth and loss in equality.
Here, have a sweet to ease your pain…

Clinging, forlorn;
the freshly broken earlobe sings
succulent first notes of a forgotten melody…

© Zelda Reville


Coming To A Fork In The Road

There is a path
that unwinds
before his feet

as he bites his lips
knowing full well
how this strange road
will elude all familiarity.

Still, the traveller
smiles and takes out from
his burlap sack
a beautiful, rippling piece of purple
that drapes loosely on his shoulders –

He’s saved it for the moment;
for this current predicament.

He buckles on his muddied shoes,
while watching the rain
bouncing off the weak fulcrum
of his hungry rapier.

He thought to himself:

“What better way
to smash initial discomfort
and the inertia of laziness,

through that split moment of
weakness – a vulnerability,
shamelessly exposed,
cheeks burning  –

the whip of life’s lessons?”

Then, as he steadied his
fiery steed, he remarked:

“How easy it is
for one to be mistaken
as alienation’s victim,

or being a less-than-grateful
affectation of a sore thumb!”

© Zelda Reville

I had to take some time out last week to dive totally into my reading. My apologies for the sudden absence!

Blank Space

Is there a place
for him in this world,

where he doesn’t need to
cut and unzip
the space around him,
step into silence
and hide himself
in common sight?

Is there a place
for her in this world,

where she doesn’t have to
squeeze herself
into a flimsy, curvaceous cutout,
paint on “lol” and “tbh”
and smother herself
with banality?

Is there a place
for us in this world,

where we don’t have to
fit ourselves
into painful stilletos

and simply present ourselves
as is?

© Zelda Reville