In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality

My world is a bullet train on high-speed rails, imagined real on the lower teeth of a shark that swims in the gut of a space whale that whale-quakes every time a watching tongue speaks of the Discworld, Doctor Who, Star Trek: Discovery, or a copyright lawyer.

I write in a normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) 21st Century reality.

My baby sister (by 31 minutes and 13 seconds) was raised by an obsessive-compulsive zombie and a well-informed pit bull wearing a used Siamese cat suit (must avoid breed profiling to live). My world’s leader (never my liege) is a leech pretending to be human under a sickening tarpaulin of inhuman hair and other ever-creeping inhumane traits.

I was nearly shot into suppression, during the 363-Women-Are-People-Too March, when a congress of righthanded men supported by a chorus of (most likely braindead) women aimed their assault rifles for freedom at 11 pit bull pups we had dressed in secondhand hoodies—the world is a cold, cold, cold place and some innocent puppies are born with little protection against ICE.

One pit bull was caged for baring his teeth during sanctioned manhandling, but every human being rebelled against justice being turned into a joke. We, the people, stand together to protect a way of life (all life!) that includes all.


My bones and thoughts and wants used to feel safe under the brown of my skin. Then, Ermintrude Ethelswaite, one of my nicest neighbors, began to iron her carpet while screaming in strange tongues, “We worked too hard colonizing our country to let dog people steal our cats’ jobs and benefits!”


I called the men in blue the night Trudy broke into my cabin to iron my bed sheets while I slept. The only blue on the officer serving and protecting me was in her eyes and the tips of her sun-crafted locks. The words dancing out of her mouth held the harsh hues of understanding, of safety, and of lust that knows itself to be love waiting for consenting hearts to nurture it into being.

“Fear spreads foolishness”, she said to me, shaking her head at the brand Trudy had just ironed through my sheets and right into the skin of my left inner thigh. “Fear-fed folly massacres nuts and fruits alike. None can stay safe in this wild ride, if all don’t protect all from all harm. Come down to the station with me. Bring a book. Post-rationalization is a real time suck.

SWAT seized Ms. Ethelswaite’s iron. But she has a permit to carry hot—none knows why. Witnesses said she only wears animal skins and sap bled from rare trees. Madness! I will listen to your words, care for your hurt. Untreated violence consumes all things. Garnish your book-bag with a healthy snack, or a 3-course meal. Madness is best battled on a full stomach.”

I reached for a mango and stuffed it in my mouth to keep my enthusiasm from kissing her wise lips in agreement. I’m extremely attracted to sense.

the (not so) wee notes…
– the Discworld rests on the backs of four huge elephants that stand on the back of a ginormous turtle. In season five of Doctor Who, what is left of the United Kingdom exists in a ship powered by a space whale. And yes, Star Trek: Discovery also brings us a space whale bursting with secrets.
– this prose poem was brewed out of inspiring comments offered by Jonquil, Anna, MagicLoveCrow, Ms Misantropia, Hedgewitch, and our increasingly disturbing reality. My next poetry postings will add to this series. We must explore book burnings, secret writings, deer and bunnies, and bears, Oh my!
– oh, and in case you haven’t noticed my extremely subtle hints, my name is Magaly Guerrero, and I’m in total lust with prose poetry that shows teeth.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.


Welcome to the Pain Circus

I crashed into the Pain Circus when a rock cracked my skin and flashed a shinbone the color of blood-shrouded teeth in a ragged mouth crimsoned by rouge pumped out of my heart. I screamed for the audience, believing my pain to be unique in its wrath.

Innocence and ignorance are kissing cousins. Reality’s an unwanted child that shits all over your best suit while giggling at you. But you accept the little bastard because you (and the rest of us) can’t thrive without its crap.

I live in my Pain Circus, collecting screams, ripping art out of agony’s gut, spelling hurts, using rage and will to feed the fire fueling my ink.

the wee notes…
– inspired by my first memory of excruciating physical pain. Before that, I had suffered a burn or 3, and had lived with a skin disease that could’ve probably won me a shambling role in The Walking Dead, but… the shock of seeing my tibia exposed has made this incident one of my most vivid memories of physical pain. I’ve suffered more serious injuries since, but for some reason this one always bleeds brighter than the rest. No idea why…
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

these deliciously creepy postcards, by Mizna Wada,
are a gift from my sweetest and dearest, Mistress Emma,
of Groovy Gothic. Thanks a bunch, Emma love.