THE DREAMSCAPE MEDIA KIT

 

EXPLODE – The Writers Environment is a platform for curated and commercial content in an immersive and interactive meta-environment… and DREAMSCAPE is the landing. It’s an immersive environment that functions like a wikihole — and a literary Pokémon.

When content on Dreamscape tells a story about a beautiful woman swimming in a pool – we want you to see her.  We want you to stumble for points on a link you cannot see, fall down a rabbit hole and land in an environment with a beautiful woman swimming in a pool, on the inside of a glass house – in Hollywood Hills…

Like Seth Godin’s Purple Cow — DREAMSCAPE is remarkable because it has to be. Or, it’s just another brown cow — an ordinary website — with ordinary content. But Purple Cows need Purple Cows to be Purple Cows. Dreamscape facilitates purple content, purple website design and development, and purple product placement — for purple people.

Advertise with us!  DREAMSCAPE  is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, Influencers, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. XR and AI.

It is a platform for curated content in an interactive meta-environment that facilitates content and other stories – using digital media and art that redefines how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content on several levels — where every paragraph, period, and ellipses is space for discovery.

Partner with us!  Help us realize an alternative reality… where presentation is myth, and space is a purple experience.

WORLDWIDE AUDIENCE REACH >11M
FOLLOWERS ACROSS SOCIAL PLATFORMS >354K
GENDER F: 47% M: 51% Unspecified: 2%
DEMOGRAPHICS 18-24: 41% 25-34: 26% 35-44: 13% 45-54: 9% 55-64: 6% 65+ 5%
LOVE DIVINE VIDEO IMPRESSIONS >1M

 

Acknowledgement:
DREAMSCAPE will benefit humanity as an alternative to social malfeasance e.g., sexism, racism, classism, genderism, ageism, colonialism, colorism, persecution, oppression, violence and subjugation… It is space to dream unencumbered – immersed in dopamine and replete with points for discovery. It will also be a ton of fun and will satisfy a generation that is increasingly becoming homebody consumers in a homebody economy.  What we experience in RL, we can experience untethered in XR and AI.

© 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

Yellow Tape [A Memoir]

Author’s Note:  The following excerpt is from the book titled, Yellow Tape [A Memoir] coming in the summer of 2021.

 

Prologue

I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in synchronicity.
We were meant to be – because we happened.

 

We took shelter in dark closets and screamed like tiny Sirens until our eyes were bloodshot and bulging, our ears ringing, our faces slick in tears and mucus, and our legs were covered in urine.  Chaperones in an obliged competition for who could scream the loudest and longest interval — to stop MaMommy and MaDaddy from fighting again.  We were toddlers.

When there was silence – except for the tinnitus in our ears, our eyes blinked for sound and with unclenched fists we dried our faces with the palms of our hands and the cuffs of our pajamas.  Sometimes we looked to each other for muted answers – our eyes suspended like question marks. 

I was two years older than my sister, and much taller. I reached for doorknobs above our heads —   I slowly turned. We peeked through the crack of light in the door.  If the crack was too narrow and my sister couldn’t see behind me, she would get down on her knees and look under the door for shadows.  We had this routine, you see.  If we heard our Mother moan, I would shut the door again — quietly.  We squatted on the floor close to each other for comfort and embraced our knees like pillows against our chests and waited interminably.  Twin hearts beating in sync. 

I can’t remember when, or how, or who rescued us from the closets… we may have rescued ourselves, quickly scurrying on bare feet to the bedroom we shared.  Success was silence, and when there was silence, we were safe.  We never looked for our Mother. She didn’t want to be found.

The next morning, my cheerful Mother would fix our favorite breakfast.  Pancakes and bacon and sometimes scrambled eggs.  We loved sugar, so we smothered our breakfast in Aunt Jemima syrup.  With care we looked for signs of injury to no avail. What were we crying about, after all? A tacit agreement that we were silly little girls worrying over nothing.

But we had so many questions. What happened? Why aren’t you sad? What can we do for you?  Was it our fault? Did we do something wrong? Why was MaDaddy so mad? Did he hurt you?  Do you love him?  We always settled for, may we have more syrup, please? 

I huddled over my breakfast once to hide the stain of a teardrop in my syrup. My Mother said, “Don’t cry.” as if crying was unnecessary, inappropriate, and a violation of her privacy.  Strong girls don’t cry. So we colluded with our Mother and pretended the incidents never happened, and drowned our pancakes in syrup, swallowing quietly, staring straight ahead, wearing our happy faces, our lashes blinking in accord and swung our legs under the table. It was a quiet ritual and the feelings were always the same. My sister and I learned early to swallow our feelings like pancakes, smothered in syrup.

******

I know pain in a vacuum and how hollowness and emptiness can coexist, like a moon that blocks the sun. This morning was metallic like the quicksilver mercury a classmate shared on the playground in a secret show and tell.  It was one uncontrollable morning that moved without impediment. 

It was my sister’s 10th birthday. My mother was standing at the stove scrambling eggs in her night gown. Out all night, my Father burst into the kitchen. With five children at the breakfast table, he grabbed my Mother by the neck and at the same time pulled open the kitchen drawer grabbing the big knife without looking… as if it were placed there specifically for this one morning. 

I bolted from the kitchen on the heels of my Father dragging my Mother out of the kitchen… but somehow, she broke free… running and begging, Honey please, please, I love you… she ran, but not far before he slashed her right buttock with the knife, and I saw white meat… White meat! I ran for help! 

I left my Mother. I left my siblings trapped in high chairs, and screaming over bowls of Sugar Smacks… I felt my sister on my heels… we ran down the winding stairs, screaming… determined… pleading, the horror… the mortification!  What is going on? What is happening?  Call the police!  Call the police!  But my Aunt, my Father’s sister, called a sibling, a brother for guidance… Call the police!  I screamed.  I couldn’t stop him.  What was I to do?  My Mother never wanted to be found…

“Call the police!” I demanded over and over again.  She didn’t.  Instead she locked herself and her daughters in the bathroom… and my sister followed her there.  They barricaded themselves… and I faced him squarely… Pugilists without gloves, without tape, without corners… “I hate you!  I hate you!  You killed my Mother!  You killed my Mother! I hate you.” I screamed repeatedly.  

He hit me.  A Pugilist hit me in the head.  My knees buckled.  I didn’t fall.  He hit me again.  My knees buckled, but I didn’t fall.  I would not fall.  He reared back and hit me with a roundhouse punch a third time.  Boom like Forman punched Frazier.  My feet left the floor.  I sailed across the room and landed behind a Settee… the back of the chair toppled over with me — and behind the chair I peed on the floor and it ran like mercury.  I sat in it and looked up at my Father doe-eyed and mortified.  With the back of the chair in my lap I thrashed like a deer hit by a car on the side of a road looking for grace. I don’t know why he came downstairs or who he was looking for.  He found me. At 6’ 3’’ he loomed in the doorway like a dark ghost fading up the stairs with the footfalls of an athlete and the precision of his occupation: meat cutter.

I mustered the courage to follow him… Determined I climbed gingerly up the stairs that reminded me of every corner and crack in the doors of those closets my sister and I hid in when we were toddlers, but this time I was alone.  

At the top of the stairs, I turned the corner, and my Father was in the mirror in the bathroom cocking a brown suede fedora on his head.  He was wearing a brown silk walking suit and brown suede shoes.  I didn’t know where my Mother was.  I was awestruck. He was beautiful.  Fate would have my Mother behind me watching me watching him.  I wondered how he could be so cruel, so vain, so cold, so calm, so cool.  He didn’t see me, or perhaps he did.  I didn’t look for my Mother.  She didn’t want to be found. 

Quietly, I retreated back downstairs and waited for the Police. I left my Mother.  I left my siblings. My sister and my Aunt were still locked in the bathroom, and my uncle had not arrived even though my Aunt called him for advice.  Instead, he called the Police.  The Police finally arrived, a paddy wagon behind them.  A paddy wagon for my Mother!  Not an ambulance. 

At 12 years old I was indignant.  I knew my Mother was not to be treated like a criminal and a paddy wagon was not appropriate for her!  My Father should be in the paddy wagon!  She was the victim, she needs a Doctor, she needs help, sympathy and proper care.  How would they even secure the stretcher in the paddy wagon?  They were in the house and up the stairs before I could finish my thoughts.  My Mother was carried back down the stairs, and because she always wanted to protect her children, she asked the Police to cover her bloody head so her children could not see what would taint her maternal code of propriety, only her children understood.  

My Father was escorted down the stairs like a hero… a god.  He was a star.  No handcuffs… It was as if the Boston Police knew and respected him, and were impressed with his walking suit, his fedora, and those brown suede shoes.  The crowd cheered him!  By this time, my Aunt and sister stood behind me. We peered through the curtains at the crowd that gathered to witness the death of my Mother and someone, a young woman pointed at me in the window and shouted, “Look!  She looks like a monster!’  Quickly, we closed the curtains and retreated to our separate corners.  My aunt gathered the bearing she hid in the bathroom, now on full display and my sister and I shared a gaze and we knew we would never share a closet again. 

I had a concussion.   No Doctor examined me.  It wasn’t confirmed by the authorities. I bargained with God between crying jags until I fell asleep over and over again. My face, my eyes, and lips were swollen and lacerated.  My family walked around me as if they would not see me — except to offer soup, and then I would remember why I grieved, why I lay in the same spot on the same couch and again I would cry myself to sleep.  They left me there until my eyes were no longer swollen, no longer bloodshot, and my lips were no longer bruised.  Traumatized. My eyes didn’t blink, and they left me on my own.  That was perhaps the most generous thing they could do, sans calling the authorities to rescue the catatonic child, and putting the son and brother at risk.  He was jailed without bond.  I saw a snippet on page 10, or perhaps it was page 2, in a little box at the bottom of the page hidden in plain sight, “Colored Man Attacks Wife with Meat Cleaver.” 

We gathered ourselves by degrees.  I heard snippets of conversation.   My Mother was alive… She lost so much blood she needed transfusions and they reached out to other jurisdictions as far as Florida. We had to go to the welfare office for assistance and were instructed by my Grandmother and Aunt to dress down to look poor and pathetic…  We dressed in a manner that my Mother would never abide for her children. I overheard a constant refrain. My Mother “… must have done or said something.”

They said a man called my Mother on the only phone in our Victorian house – my Grandmother’s phone on the first floor.  Another of my Father’s brothers, told my Father a man called my Mother and chided him to do something!

I was alone in an abyss of violence justified by hostility, doubt, and betrayal.  I was convinced they didn’t like my Mother, or me for that matter.  My breath was alien, angry, staccato.  My Father slashed my Mother’s right buttock and left random slashes on her back.  He broke her arm, he cut her skull… and finally, and this was a first — he scarred her face.  A crescent moon on her cheek – the symbol for a new beginning.

Because of the institutionalization and practice of The Rule of Thumb, women in Massachusetts endured domestic violence. It was incumbent on women to press charges.  The D.A. begged my Mother to file criminal charges against my Father.  My Grandmother begged her not to file charges against her son.  My Father begged her not to file and guaranteed he would never harm her again.  My Mother did not file charges. 

The yellow tape was removed from the door.  We cleaned the blood and flesh off the floor and the walls, and discarded bowls of cereal abandoned and calcified in sour milk like the bark of a tree my Father fashioned into a lamp, and filled the space with children tethered and tripping over yellow tape that tangles as they grow taller.

My Mother came home wearing a shield of armor – a cast. White, clean, no graffiti.  She was proud of that cast – a symbol of survival – of an accident.  We were so happy!  Our Mother was alive, and even more beautiful than before!  I remember my Mother lying in the center of her bed surrounded by her children.  One of my siblings ran his hands through her hair, and she scolded him, “Don’t do that.”  The polar opposite of “Girls don’t cry.”  Don’t make a girl cry.  Don’t avail yourself to her body.  Don’t break her skin.

My Father stopped by. They had an announcement. He was coming home.  My sister and I were bewildered, and disappointed but always respectful; however, upon that announcement, I slowly rose from the floor and walked away without explanation or hesitation. 

This time my sister followed me up the stairs to our bedroom in the attic.  Not long after walking away from them my Mother did something she rarely did – she came upstairs to our bedroom.  She sat on the edge of my bed and gingerly told me my Father said, he hit me because I was hysterical.

I am not a monster!  I am not a monster…  It’s more complicated than that.

 

Copyright © 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

 ________________________________________________

Edited by Brahidaliz Martinez

Spontaneous Ode to COVID-19

Nothing

Nothing

Nothing
No pork
No meat
No GMO
No pesticides
No chemicals
No vegetables
No leather
No feathers
No farmers
No pickers
No corn
No food
No work
No prosperity
No friends
No groceries
No sugar
No fashion
No affection
No morgues
No burials
No speculators
No beauty
No makeup
No vanity
No vacations
No restaurants
No music
No movies
No sports
No theaters
No plays
No crowds
No police
No museums
No cable
No concerts
No chaff
No trough
No travel
No cars
No bars
No trucks
No brick-and-mortar
No hospitals
No nurses
No doctors
No assistants
No parks
No prisoners
No tickets
No economy
No gouging
No lipstick
No hookups
No intimacy
No strangers
No kisses
No hugs
No love
No metro
No nursing homes
No taxis
No buses
No ventilators
No PPE
No toilet paper
No democracy
No capitalism
No money
No jealousy
No flossing
No vaccine
No schools
No blessings
No immigrants
No refugees
No freedom
No children
No churches
No humans
No handshakes
No greed
No gluttony
No gyms
God

 

Copyright © 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

Artist Statement… Unfettered Birds (WIP)

Introduction

My work explores the relationship between what is real, and what is unreal.  With influences as diverse as Yukio Mishima’s Onnagata and 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Where words are illusory and freedom is real, and brick and mortar is a wasteland — for mortal dreams and nightmares.

Where categories don’t matter, and you are god… the god of your dreams.  My work is a journey – from the perspective of the young prince and princess in Hollywood, Dubai, the Great Caves, and Capote… Where freedom rings supreme and the fiction in your mind comes true — for real.

We launched Dreamscape in a glass cocoon — opaque me and transparent you.  Content is buried there — over black people, white people, red people, yellow people, brown people, rich people, poor people, and melancholy.  Inside pods power is fetish, and fashion is an avatar.  My work explores the freedom to be who we are — dreaming unfettered in space — birds…

 

TRENCHPEOPLE.COM

 

Copyright 2020 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

DREAMSCAPE — Promotional Special During the Holiday Season

PREMIUM CONTENT

Airport Announcement in Manila

 

PREMIUM CONTENT

 

[The Godforsaken]

 

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

They knew who first

judged what out of dreams

came truly real*

and he was fastened to a rock

and they knew who

stirreth up the people and dippeth his hand**

in the dish with Judas

and he was nailed to a cross

And they read books within books

about wise and foolish virgins

and signs of the end

and love and judgment

and they heard God talk

through the mouths of men

who talked about him

his son and the holy ghost

When spectators provided the notion of reality

Christ and Prometheus

were objectified and subjectified allegory

spheres of hope and rebellion

courage and prudence

temperance and justice

and how they chose to read it

in the time before terror

depended on what level

they chose to see it

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

 

They reused and refashioned the heads

of emperors in their own image

because they could

They reinforced power and authority

with legitimate political imagery

like the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses

and General Holofernes

They respected the classical past

in fertile crescents of greed

and rejected classical design

in the center of ruins

They housed the rock in the dome

on which Muhammad ascended to heaven

and hung the Virgin Mary’s blue robe

in Chartres Cathedral

 

When denizens of form said

Nothing is new…

The godforsaken asked

Since when?

since the Lion Gate

since the Great Sphinx of Giza

since Doric and Ionic orders

since the Palette of King Narmer

since the Parthenon

since Stonehenge

Since when?

They stood in the light of starry nights

in the drum, coffers, and concrete cylinders

of uninterrupted space in the Pantheon

and made no apologies for ripping off

master tracks from the past

and heard the hip hop train

sampling every post-hit

with unripe music and blood

and mounted the heads of gods

on the manifest

like the catalog of procreation

in Genesis

 

They heard his Mother

three blocks away

on parallel streets

screaming redundantly

You won’t take my child!

You won’t take my child!

at the vigil where transvestites

whispered how many times

her child was stabbed in the neck

 

Lord have mercy!

Who are these motherfuckers?

on the bottom rung of the Ladder of Descent

trying to climb up

on the backs of allegories

floating in fleeting and airy hope

part of the story

part of the sin

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

 

They knew

that love ends

as it begins again

on rocks and crosses

in books and dreams

and politics and imagery

under domes and temples

in music and song

and blood and death

in stories and sin

and in the hands

of God

The swallows are building.

 

Copyright 2018 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound

** Matthew 26: V21,V22,V23,V25

For more purple content visit:  https://www.trenchpeople.com/

 

Directing the Master Scene in the Mirror

 

We’re standing behind you

The window is your mirror

We‘re filming your reflections

 

In the window

You can see

The teardrop on her cheek

The other tear — is in your hair

Reach up and wipe the tear

 

With your thumb

Roll the tear on your fingers

As if water — is on the wings

of a butterfly_

 

Now, your face is dry

You point and say something

Insignificant like

“See that gas station down there.”

 

Vignette for Love Divine.

 

Copyright © 2018 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

 

 

The Wonderment

Why does black on black crime matter less than black lives matter?

Black on black crime is the consequence of a broken man

Black lives matter is the consequence of a broken system

Fix the broken system

fix the broken man >>>>

 

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Bernardo Bertolucci passed away today, November 26, 2018 — RIP

  • The Sheltering Sky
  • The Dreamers
  • The Last Emperor
  • The Conformist

 

Dada — Lost and Found — Triptych

 

Doing nothing

and falling

down the same rabbit hole

I would be nosey

like numbers on analytics

Floating lollipops and gummy bears

 

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

On the 48th year since the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. — the language for this mash-up, was for the revolutionary icon.

Bars and Verses for the South Side (Inspired by Kendrick Lamar’s The Blacker the Berry)

 

You are here

In front of the Mona Lisa

Provoking six million gags a year

Dismissing she’s da Vinci in drag

 

You are here

So valuable she can’t be insured

Sfumato eyes and slanted smile

Dangle like sneakers…. on a pole

 

I can hear you thinking

You are here

You are here

You are here

You are here

 

Bored with near misses and boors

And the fealty of Jim Crow fifty years ago

Riding a labyrinth carousel in the wilderness

You are here…  before the fiery furnace

 

Freedom not long actually happened

While you were sleeping unaccountable

Transfixed on transitions a half-century ago

Don’t pretend you know what’s going on

 

We are here beyond the status quo

Beyond owning cable movies until 2024

Beyond the fear of dread before joy

Where do we go from here?

 

I know, they know, he knows, she knows

Like assumptions on the street is folly

Free your children what can you do for them?

Who are we?

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

  

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

There are non-profit-tax-exempt boarding schools

For girls and boys who would die on the fourth of July

Because snitches get stitches and fathers disappear

It was an easy sale – – – –

 

Wooed scholars thinkers and Morehouse men

With paeans and promises for the liberal emergence of altruism

With curriculums and schools of thought designed by them

It was an easier sale – – – –

 

Bernanke, Chomsky, Aslan, Witten

Micheaux, Baldwin, Davis, Marsalis

Thompson, Sir Timothy, Nash – – – –

Gates, Plato, Picasso, and Sowell

 

Over there where students create Kickstarter projects

Before the class trip to Paris, France in the fall

Parents watch their children dance under the balustrade

On the sunken floor after the Science Fair on Saturday morn

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

Cunning like military brats have to be

Wearing class A red cardigans and purity rings

Watching Venus north of the crescent moon in the dome

Reengineering the next generation

 

I called myself a Ghost writer

I never claimed to be one

But Talking heads and Rhodes Scholars

Join the flute girls at the grog bowl serving sharp edges and chum

 

This life is a bizarro disinvestment

But, before you head home by GPS

Where the last honest man is on video

Here’s a bar and verse… for the road

 

Our Father who art in heaven – – – – 

Hallowed be your name

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done

On earth

As it is in heaven – – – –

 

Where God given gifts are never squandered

You are here in the foyer with problem and solution

Where common sense is not enough

Where who and what is forever kitschy

Affirmation is a function of negation and vice versa*

Social constructs are under siege and should be

Where talking heads shut the fuck up!

 

Free them!

 

You’re welcome to stay for Church

Or join Yogi… Temple

 

Copyright ©2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*Octavio Paz

Transition… (Dedicated to the Survivors of the Charleston Massacre)

chi-charleston-0619-wre0029475677-20150619

In the body of Christ

Du Bois looked at Martin,

“Martin, what do you think?”

Martin looked down

tried to suppress a certain cry

reaching, he wiped a tear

from Du’s eye.

Transcript: Obama Delivers Eulogy for Clementa Pinckney — By Steven Dennis

 

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller, Explode.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Godforsaken

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

they knew who first

judged what out of dreams

came truly real*

and he was fastened to a rock

and they knew who

stirreth up the people and dippeth his hand**

in the dish with Judas

and he was nailed to a cross

And they read books within books

about wise and foolish virgins

and signs of the end

and love and judgment

and they heard God talk

through the mouths of men

who talked about him

his son and the holy ghost

 

When spectators provided the notion of reality

Christ and Prometheus

were objectified and subjectified allegory

spheres of hope and rebellion

courage and prudence

temperance and justice

and how they chose to read it

in the time before terror

depended on what level

they chose to see it

 

Pity

incredible people and prophets

who function as vehicle

for literal, moral,

and anagogical levels of meaning

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

they reused and refashioned the heads

of emperors in their own image

because they could

they reinforced power and authority

with legitimate political imagery

like the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses

and General Holofernes

They respected the classical past

in fertile crescents of greed

and they rejected classical design

in the center of ruins

 

They housed the rock in the dome

on which Muhammad ascended to heaven

and hung the Virgin Mary’s blue robe

in Chartres Cathedral

and it didn’t burn

and they appropriated columns

and Corinthian capitals

and called it the holy triumph

of Islam

 

When denizens of form said

Nothing is new…

The godforsaken asked,

Since when?

since the Lion Gate

since the Great Sphinx of Gizeh

since Doric and Ionic orders

since the Palette of King Narmer

since the Parthenon

since Stonehenge

Since when?

 

They stood in the light of starry nights

in the drum, coffers, and concrete cylinders

of uninterrupted space in the Pantheon

and made no apologies for ripping off

master tracks from the past

and heard the hip hop train

sampling every post-hit

with unripe music and blood

and mounted the heads of gods

on the manifest

like the catalog of procreation

in Genesis

 

They heard his Mother

three blocks away

on parallel streets

screaming redundantly

You won’t take my child!

You won’t take my child!

at the vigil where transvestites

whispered about how many times

her child was stabbed in the neck…

 

Lord have mercy!

Who are these motherfuckers?

on the bottom rung of the Ladder of Descent

trying to climb up

on the backs of allegories

floating in fleeting and airy hope

part of the story

part of the sin

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

 

He knew

that love ends

as it begins again

on rocks and crosses

in books and dreams

and politics and imagery

under domes and temples

in music and song

and blood and death

in stories and sin

and in the hands

of God

~ the Swallows are building.

 

Copyright 2004, 2013 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

*Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound

** Matthew 26: V21,V22,V23,V25