Sunday, May 1, 2016



suffering in silence.
the gutter ogled
destruction by
drinking and drugs.

throughout the body
under pressure
under the voltage
cable. it's night
so your time.

you're still standing
the brand new lost
a few customers
are looking at you.

pull your dress up,
show merchandise
... they honk and
give your terms
even for you unknown.

in the night
the street is yours.

in daytime ... gnawing
by the rats
who walked through the sewer.

by night
abrasion by the
residues of
loosened thoughts.

in daytime ... the fretting
of your 'clock' ticking
counters clockwise.

but the extra
hours are a delight,
payment for pleasure,
pleasure for money

no risk for you,
you know that you ...

this is your revenge, because
on the cutting edge
there was no one.
your display not polished
exhibit dull spots, your material
is affected by rust,
the weathered shows your
life course and
your cause of death.

© Derrel and Bianca

- age 17 -
I see her mother,
a fighter.

all she had lost by
gentle hands that got calluses
and did not massage her anymore
but were scraping instead.

her skin
open met.
in the wounds
he threw it
more than
a kilo of salt.

gave her a kiss
with his fists
on her cheeks.

it was a smack.

he hit her with love.
she laughed with love.
he saw disrespect.

only tears can give
rescue then he sees her
as he found her ... broken.
her previous boyfriend was a dick,
but he revive her
and then broke her.

now there was
no difference,
he was also
a dick, so she
had to act.

she went through
the door, healed
she stood in the garden.

she was no longer ...
no longer more vulnerable,
she was not someone
which was to impress
by force or age

I take a look at
this fighting child,
I see ... a born mother.

© Derrel


suspended from fraying
the worn wires
up to the seam
let go of the yarn
from the substance

in the night
they fall from the tissue

texts spill on you
spotless wrinkle-free
white cotton pants

thoughts give hard stools
color the world in a different
tint to deviate from the rest

words climb into the pen
oops, blue ink spots
on your legs visible

I'll put you
in the washing machine
at 60 degrees

you can smell the fresh
odor of the spring

with two green pegs
I'll hang you up the yellow line

you may flutter in the wind

© Bianca

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