Showing posts with label Neila Mezynski. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neila Mezynski. Show all posts
Note For A Pink Lady
By Neila Mezynski
Surrounded by heaps of color clothes, trip over bad ass lady of the upstairs. Demon say, demon know. Bow wearing pink plastic purse carrier. Lit with self aware, contemplates her life as all there is, no exception to now. Me. In between. Keep it fast and sassy my dear. Come now. She’ll touch you how you like hummingbird soft, bow lady. Don’t put on your hatchet face or sharp rattle me landlord used car salesman bit. Garden grown peaches. She’ll come then.
Bio: Dancer/choreographer turned painter/writer, Neila Mezynski has fiction published and forthcoming on Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Kill Author, Dogzplot, Scrambler, Weird Year, Mud Luscious among several others.
By Neila Mezynski
Surrounded by heaps of color clothes, trip over bad ass lady of the upstairs. Demon say, demon know. Bow wearing pink plastic purse carrier. Lit with self aware, contemplates her life as all there is, no exception to now. Me. In between. Keep it fast and sassy my dear. Come now. She’ll touch you how you like hummingbird soft, bow lady. Don’t put on your hatchet face or sharp rattle me landlord used car salesman bit. Garden grown peaches. She’ll come then.
Bio: Dancer/choreographer turned painter/writer, Neila Mezynski has fiction published and forthcoming on Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Kill Author, Dogzplot, Scrambler, Weird Year, Mud Luscious among several others.
Sam’s House
By Neila Mezynski
Pea green. The house had been painted a pea green. The replacement of his world with a post office. The walls, his walls, the color of official. Inside, small secretive bastard, lips twitching pulling at his sleeves waiting, waiting for her to go, to eat lunch. Takes all day, you know, to eat. Go now. Get the hell out of here. His arms folded tight against his chest, he sat super straight to control the urge to cry. God awful disappointment his life.
She wasn’t there to buffer him against the world. She was on the roof in the tomato plants.
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Bio: foundlingreview.com
everydaypoets.com
abandonedtowers.com
By Neila Mezynski
Pea green. The house had been painted a pea green. The replacement of his world with a post office. The walls, his walls, the color of official. Inside, small secretive bastard, lips twitching pulling at his sleeves waiting, waiting for her to go, to eat lunch. Takes all day, you know, to eat. Go now. Get the hell out of here. His arms folded tight against his chest, he sat super straight to control the urge to cry. God awful disappointment his life.
She wasn’t there to buffer him against the world. She was on the roof in the tomato plants.
- - -
Bio: foundlingreview.com
everydaypoets.com
abandonedtowers.com
Norman’s Movies
By Neila Mezynski
A bowl of overcooked spaghetti. Limp and sloppy. Throw me against the wall, Norm said, I’m done. Eat me Alice. Eyes closed too blank to see out. Thank god he had a rainbow inside. All sorts of beautiful colors lived in Norm’s head. Norm had a regular movie theater up there in Technicolor starring himself and almost anyone stored in his memory bank. Norm could fly like Peter Pan over the nurses, bedpans, unused bodies out into the cool cool breeze of evening and dance between twinkling stars and cheesy moons and tie ropes of golden strings around fireplaces with Norman’s Movies gently curling smoke around him. Scampering across rooftops, jumping over lamptops he drank and felt himself alive rolling around in any gutter out of control with booze and desire for her. Alive with no fences.
- - -
Bio: foundlingreview.com
everydaypoets.com
abandonedtowers.com
By Neila Mezynski
A bowl of overcooked spaghetti. Limp and sloppy. Throw me against the wall, Norm said, I’m done. Eat me Alice. Eyes closed too blank to see out. Thank god he had a rainbow inside. All sorts of beautiful colors lived in Norm’s head. Norm had a regular movie theater up there in Technicolor starring himself and almost anyone stored in his memory bank. Norm could fly like Peter Pan over the nurses, bedpans, unused bodies out into the cool cool breeze of evening and dance between twinkling stars and cheesy moons and tie ropes of golden strings around fireplaces with Norman’s Movies gently curling smoke around him. Scampering across rooftops, jumping over lamptops he drank and felt himself alive rolling around in any gutter out of control with booze and desire for her. Alive with no fences.
- - -
Bio: foundlingreview.com
everydaypoets.com
abandonedtowers.com
