the special dream of them

( sadly happy )

neverland by Kelsey Rakes

i'm giving myself ten minutes to grow up,
and with every minute that passes i am remembering
balloons and party hats and streamers
and the second star to the right,
straight on 'til morning.

every year i write myself a poem for my birthday,
but this year i think i'll write a poem about
peter pan and he'll die in the end and everyone
will be sad. i'll be the saddest though,
because there comes a point in your life
when you realize that you're not peter pan,
or wendy, or even a lost boy.

(how sad, i think, to be lost but not a lost boy.
it doesn't matter though, because neverland isn't
real and now look, i'm another year older, and what
have i even done with my life?)

today i'm twenty-three and peter pan is dead.
my ten minutes have passed and i still haven't
grown up. people around me forget how to talk
to mermaids, and no one claps because no one
believes in fairies, or flying, or themselves.

today every birthday candle looks like a bone
and i still have so many wishes left to make.
maybe i should know who i am and what i am
doing by now, but i don't know. i don't care.
i'm twenty-three and this is all i have, it's all i
will ever have. you can keep your careers and cars
and aspirations. i will be waiting by my window
for a little boy with stars for eyes who can
never grow older because he is dead.

the soccer game. by Kelsey Rakes

the thing is, i need
the deer to mean something.

-

i go to the soccer game and smile
and nod while something furious
inside of me is screaming.
a deer appears while the sun
is setting and it's like a scene
from a movie: green grass and gold rays
that spread out, tingeing our feet
with one last bit of wednesday.
everyone watches the deer and makes
noises of appreciation and i look
around and i think to myself
"okay, this is it, i am happy."

-

the deer is watching me and i try
to decide if it's a metaphor.
i want the deer to be death, see,
to represent fucking or blacking
out or apathy or loneliness.

someone does something heroic
with a soccer ball and i watch
my hands clap together over and over.
okay, or maybe the deer is supposed
to be happy. maybe the deer
represents attending social
events and sitting with people.
maybe the deer means that
i'm ready to let go.

the girl beside me looks over
and asks if i've written any poems
lately. (that's all she knows of me,
that i write poems and smile vapidly.)
i laugh and hold my wrists
and write silent excuses on
my throat with my tongue.

no, sorry, too busy wondering
if the absence of tragedy
is the equivalent of happiness.

-

the deer is just a fucking deer,
it goes as quickly as it comes
and no one notices enough to care.

the sun sets and it isn't beautiful
or mystical or meaningful. it just is.

it's so cold for june and only growing
colder. darker. i still my shaking hands
and try to write a poem while people
on either side of me whisper and giggle
and touch. someone tells a joke and i
can't remember if i already laughed.

if this is happiness, i'd rather be sad.

compulsive liar. by Kelsey Rakes

once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.


-


sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.

i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.

"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.

"why not?" i reply.


-


i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someone else for a day.

you make me a nametag with my
real name on it, and i just laugh.

(later i slip it beneath my mattress
and spend the night staring at the ceiling.
see, i've tried myself on one too many
times, and the fit is never right.)


-


you call me your little compulsive
liar, and i guess that is supposed
to be somewhat affectionate.
or something.


-


i spin before the mirror wearing
my mother's wedding dress and
a purple wig, admiring the way
the train billows out behind me
like wings.

"where is the girl i fell in love with?"
you ask quietly, watching me
slow to a halt.

"she's gone," i say decisively,
and closing my eyes i begin to spin
once more.

Past Our Dancing Days by barnabus

A kitchen. MAN and WOMAN stand centre stage, in front of a counter with drawers. They are arguing as lights fade on.

WOMAN. Look. It’s called a double suicide pact for a reason. I kill myself, and then you kill yourself.
MAN. Why are we doing this again? Do I have to kill myself?
WOMAN. Yes.
MAN. I don’t like the smell of blood.
WOMAN. So what?
MAN. I don’t like iron either. Probably because iron smells like blood.
WOMAN. Shut up.
MAN. Don’t tell me to shut up.
WOMAN. When you shut up, I’ll stop telling you to shut up.
MAN. You shut up.
WOMAN. You’re stalling.
MAN. Am not.
WOMAN. Are too.
MAN. Am not!
WOMAN. Then do it.
MAN. You were going first.
WOMAN. It doesn’t matter who goes first. We’ll both be dead.
MAN. I’m hungry.
WOMAN. We just ate.
MAN. I can smell them cooking next door. I’m making a sandwich.
WOMAN. Take the knife!
MAN. That’s my good knife.
WOMAN. So?
MAN. I don’t want to ruin my good knife.
WOMAN. What does it matter?
MAN. It’s a matter of principle. Use one of the cheaper ones.

( read more )