How About Judith's Cauldron

How About Judith's Cauldron?
originally published by pseudonym S. Strict 02 Jan 2009
copyright 2009-2012
@aladreth antoinette brown




hey french kiss girl, my, oh my
snowcake on Harbour Street
oh, darling, you're my lily savon,
demon in the dark, angels delight
pink lady,
hellow buttercup,

I wish I  had you tied
in a little hex a come
next to my bed, your morning bath,
secret stash
secret melt (meat), be my vanilla
foundation,
happy pill, massive mango,
magic orange blossom honey
sexy peel trap, creamy candy

so grande, dream time,
render me immortal with fever
in a marriage of tahini paste
massage in a past due font,
hot milk time,
it's business time,
up you gets!!!
(tramp)

men-men-men - make up your *mind*
there's a perfect storm
coming, sunny side coming
us angry housewives
snap the black currant whip
on the pathway to hell,
yes, my little rock chick wild child,
the devil made you do it ... again

She's Got Her Bobby Back

She's Got Her Bobby Back

copyright 2009-2012
@aladreth antoinette brown

(previously published May 8, 2009)


'Look at all these gadgets. You press a button and factories go up.  Or you pick up a telephone and tankers set out for Persia.  Or through a Dictaphone you say, "Buy all of Cleveland and move it to Pittsburgh."  You must be clever.' ~~ Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina in "Sabrina"



Arizona, you've got a lovely daughter
and she has her bobby back,
her bonny, doll drod,
bathroom buddy back,

she's a thin, worn out horse,
wicked harridan,
decaying strumpet, that ill
favoured girl

but she has her bobby,
her song of Baltimore,
and Latin words,
deliver light from light

she has her scorecards of
sex.gossip.death,
blaring fishwife rows,
evening news jaunts
her code, her ESP,
public waving,
first person waving,

she has her feast of night
loudly weeping, shouting,
"I'M WITH EVIL"

she has her tight purple sweater,
melon breasts,
fastened black stockings,
flesh touching God,
bathroom walls,
"HE WAS A FAKE"

yes, now she knows what
the morning means,

what twenty years means,

and how social networking sites
can find your ex ...
the one you had an abortion with,
the one who lost his wife in a fatal accident.

By God, she's got her bobby back.

Sizing Up My Halo

Sizing Up My Halo
copyright 2008 - 2012
@aladreth antoinette brown
Previously published July 1, 2008




Remember that time
on the hood of a car
in Sedona,
you sang to me eno,
sang me the stars,
played me steve in "The Jerk"
complete with banjo and hay in the teeth?

you bought me books and opium,
you ran to kill
something
that would make me taste
vinegar for a week
if it bit me

we were
"serious practitioners" of the
alternative arts -

We bought Walmart.

Well, you can't buy Walmart, can you?
It's sort of a monopoly.

But, we bought cases and cases of
toilet paper, plastic flowers, confetti,
and barbecue sauce.

We needed everything
anyone would buy.

We were so damn smart, but still,
dirt poor and bare foot; stealing
pharmaceuticals from our jobs.

We saw george carlin,
(since everyone is talking about him now)
he used the "f" word a lot

We saw a horse farmer
who said we should be married
so I said
I would drive you through
the Elvis Chapel in Vegas
and marry you.

I don't know why you were so scared,
for pete's sake, I was already married!

I recall being very stressed out
after sex,
worried if ultrasonic waves
would kill the crickets in my house
Way after you were asleep
I snuck out
of the bed
and unplugged the ultrasonic thingies
you had so proudly purchased
and I hid them from you
because crickets in the house,
are good luck, you know

Remember, I threatened
to kidnap james spader
and fuck him silly?

you said you would bail me out
if I would be indebted to you
and let you see me behind bars
(it was a fetish of yours
left over from Danish
"Educator" days)

Remember when we shared a waitress
in a cummerbund, cucumber, and chardonnay?

One night, you told me,
"You have some low down friends"
you said,
"You are sizing up that halo, Girl,
dealing with them guys, 'cos
your friends are rotten-good-for
nuthin' snakes."

All your friends said
you ate creativity for breakfast,
because, well damnit, you are creative,
you sing and play the guitar and make music,
hell, you make covers, you make
salt packets, you make Indiana purses,
you make sunflower duvets bow, you make me
steal Sardax,
you tied in the trees,
the trees;
my dress,
you make me doctor it pinkish red and
you make the dog bark when he hears your voice
sound like a cow of memories on the X-files synth

I make a horrible sound ...
such a horrid, scary sound
driving up and down your street,
looking for your new red car,
smelling for New York style cheesecake
humming the song you taught me with orbs,
creeks, colours, and cranes.

God, if only again,
to lay in your arms again,
to size up my halo

Bruised Brian

previously publised Nov 28, 2006
Bruised Brian by @aladreth antoinette brown
copyright 2006-2012


A few years ago (yes, I know all my stories start like this; it's my trademark, you see) Elise and I gave a poetry workshop at this run down former sanctuary for writers.

It was in the mountains on Interstate 74. My old car's engine nearly died trying to make it up that steep road, but boy was it beautiful. It was so nice. Brian was there. He was one of our 'students' and he was quite nice too.

Brian was 28 years old, far younger than Elise and me, but he was still old enough to know better. Old enough to know the difference between bad and good. Old enough to know the difference between good and evil. And Elise and I could be evil. We had our moments.

Brian, on the other hand, could be very sweet and subservient. Yet, he could be quite brazen too. This made me take notice, yes, I took notice of his mood swings, his silliness, and beyond all of those things, he was a brilliant writer. He wasn't the kind you hate. He was the kind who didn't let on he knew he was so convincing and clever. He just wrote for the sake of writing and that was refreshing. He would write about herbal magic in the bible like everyone should just know there's herbal magic in the bible and then he'd write about belts, whips and canes just like everyone enjoyed getting hit by them. He mixed things up a lot and he always seemed to be putting his best effort forward.

The first night all the writers and writers-in-the-rough arrived, we went to this country-style-casserole-dinner-place down in town. It was right at the base of the mountain. We drank sweet ice tea and laughed and talked until we closed the place at 11pm.

Writers are not normal but we can pretend to be. It's all part of plotting adventures, I guess, writing that script, spinning that wheel. I felt normal that night. I knew, though, I was not.

The next day we had a break. A time on our own to hike the mountain, sleep in, meditate, take pictures, clean our rooms, or do whatever we wanted to on our time off.

During this time we were to compile five new poems and present them in some type of book form the following morning. I was leading that first meeting and it was quite informal. I invited everyone to sit on the floor among the pillows and old blankets and rugs and we would discuss our work.

I held the entries from the writers on a beat up aluminum cookie sheet and Brian's was the second one in the pile.

I got through all the formalities of reviewing and reading aloud and showing the first writer's work off and then I showed Brian's work. He had taken one of those ten page scrapbooks from the store and put a poem on each page or two with some art. It really looked like a proper scrapbook and I was impressed, not just with the words, but the artistic creativity he showed.

The first page was dark blue with white squiggly lines and there was a box on the top in the middle. In the box; five lines. I'm not a real fan of short poems, but this was a good one and the box wasn't totally square and I knew that meant something. We all discussed it. Brian was sort of silent during the whole process but I wasn't too worried.

Then I opened to the second page and immediately stopped.

I took in everything at once, the deep browns from scraps of our menu at the restaurant, the crazy arrangement of everything, pieces of everything. Brian had ripped menus up and wrote on them in dark black ink the things people had said or the jokes they had told, so next to "Meatloaf $7.95" would be a description of the conversation Elise had with Michael or there would be times that I smiled. "She smiled at 845pm and it lit up the room," it said. There were things like, "She laughed with the waiter about her order." Silly things like that but very complete and accurate about all of us and the time we had that previous evening at the good old country diner.

In the center of all of this - it took up two pages - was a green strip and in a very light lime green tricky psycho looking font he had wrote his poem.

It was called "I Will Follow You" and skipping to the bottom of the poem, there was my name - he had dedicated it to me and he had used my real name.

I looked up at him in the front row sitting with his legs crossed and pressed the scrapbook with cookie sheet holding all the other efforts of the writers to my chest. I took a deep breath and stared in to his knowing eyes. I said, "Let's reconvene this after lunch."

I heard sighs and murmurs that we had only just started and hadn't even finished the second book and little questions of what might be going on.

I got up from the floor where I was sitting among many pillows and put the cookie sheet holding all the efforts of the writers on the bar stool to the side of me. I took Brian's book and left the room.

I was down the hall when Elise caught up with me.

I asked her, "Can I speak to you in your room?"

Elise said it would be fine. I stood behind her as she opened three different locks and we entered a three bedroom suite with five beds.

"Elise, what do you need with all these beds and all this space?"

She shrugged.

"There's nothing here, just beds!" I remarked, shocked again at the way her room looked in comparison to mine and the students.

"I just lucked out, I guess."

"But, you are alone in here, right?"

"Definitely alone."

"So, why the five beds?"

"I just like my space."

"Okay, alright," I messed with my hair and twisted it back.

"So, what was it you needed to talk about? Why did you end the session so quickly?"

I guess I couldn't grasp why Elise's room seemed so different and she had all these locks and doors and beds and it was overwhelming. Sure, it's not something to get all worked up about, but what was I doing there talking to Elise when I needed to talk to Brian.

I brushed off my pantsuit, "Oh, nothing. Sorry.  We'll just get back together after lunch. All of us."

I left Elise's massive three bedroom suite with the five beds and went in to the hall where the student writers were chatting and there was Brian leaning against the wall.

"Brian, can we talk?" I asked as I walked right past him down the hall.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, all obedient like and he followed right behind me, right in the footsteps of my high heeled boots, it seemed.

There was a room on the left no one was staying in, so I twisted the old door knob and the door popped right open and we stepped down in.

The room looked exactly like a college dormitory room and smelled just like one too.

We went to the center of the room and Brian was the first to speak, "There are dead fish in the aquarium."

"Yes, I see that, Brian, does it concern you?" I was still holding his scrapbook of poetry to my chest.

"Not really," he looked down, "The carpet is dirty."

"Does that concern you?"

"Maybe a bit."

"Well, we are only going to be here for a short period of time to discuss this, so can you pay attention?"

"Is anyone staying in this room? Because the fish are dead."

"Brian! You seem awfully concerned about the fish! There is no bed in this room, so I doubt anyone is staying in the room. We can take care of the aquarium later this afternoon, how about."

He looked at me with his soft childish eyes. Maybe I was being too harsh. I was like the stern, strict teacher who had called him out for being naughty. Everyone would know that it was something about his work that had stopped the session. His hair was long and to his shoulders and he was wearing a brown tweed long coat with jeans and work boots. His turtle neck was black. There was something very interesting about him, you know.

"I'll stop worrying about the fish," he said, but he said it with somewhat of a whimper in his voice.

I came a little closer to him and showed him the page with the poem that was supposedly dedicated to me.

"Can you explain this to me?"

"It's a poem."

"Yes, I see that. Why don't you read it to me because the font is weird and the colour of the print is blending in to the dark green paper."

"I will follow you," he continued reading the poem in his barely audible voice and it was about stalking me.

I just kept staring at him as he continued reading, "I will kneel to you," then the poem shifted to submitting to me, the person he had stalked.  No, he wouldn't be 'scary' anymore, he would just totally submit and do anything I wanted, and so on, and so on.

I interrupted him, "Then do it now."

"What?"

"Kneel."

"But the carpet is dirty!"

"Do it, Brian."

He did as I commanded, and as he had said in his poem he would do, he knelt and he knelt on the dirty carpet.

I took the scrapbook from him and bent over, my face to his face, my cleavage right in his face and I whispered in his ear, "I will get you. You just wait, I will get you."

Then I turned and walked out the door and left him kneeling there.

Dirty Douts The Light

Dirty Douts The Light 
previously published Jan 16, 2007
copyright 2007-2012 @aladreth antoinette brown


"Is there no way out of the mind?" - Sylvia Plath

"Now... When it comes to you, and us, I have a few unanswered questions. So, before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth.
However, therein lies a dilemma. Because, when it comes to the subject of me, I believe you are truly and utterly incapable of telling the truth, especially to me, and least of all, to yourself.
And, when it comes to the subject of me, I am truly and utterly incapable of believing anything you say." -- from Kill Bill 2


dedicated to the spirits of the old wild, wild west 






My volcanic ash dusted player boy,
dirty is as dirty does boy,

I know you better
than you know yourself.

I know your lies.
I know your truth.

I know your make believe world.
I've lived it with you.

you traveled the long washboard night,
Italian girls whined you led them on,
glasses clinked at the old wood stove,
spunk filled beer clashed couch
taunted and teased the sports fanatics
The sun sets, wind blows
it's harsh fucked-up bother,

I tell you,
classy names
don't make fame

I'd make bigger
noise
if anyone
cared to listen

Midnight chimes
master steak chef Herb
in his leather coat,
drunk on margaritas
takes a picture with us

We tour the
heavy safe
standing
through it all
"no, I won't drink, I won't"

dance floor covered
in wood chips,
ash and piss
"but I will fuck"

I'll say it ten times and
do it twenty.

Our clipped wings rub
in restored red room,
tin ceiling mirror
our imperfect bodies
at end of thin hallway,

The Wild, Wild West
awakens right out
of Box Canyon
and Skull Valley.

Once, this place
was a Station Stop,
later a Bordello.

The ghost of the Madam Mary
laughs at our naive repertoire,
inexperienced silliness,
and trust.

She was killed here
a century ago
by an old man upstairs.
Her beautiful face
has appeared in the wood,
fire fingerprint,
stained and slobbered,
a cross between
gallant glinting nipple ring and
gaudy Elvis.

But I see it,
it's got to be fake, baby,
'cos I see it.

We know how to
rid(e) the spirit;
A bell,
book,
candle,
and a few chosen words,
but we can't be serious
in such spiritual matters,
so, we toss and tumble
on top of the words
and I feel
impending apocalypse ...
I'm losing you ...

slipping, sliding
your aromatic soap
on the tips of my fingers
nature's rosy spines
spires
raging pores open
curvaceous sweat
dripping from your hair,
on to my body,
you've got me whipped,
all you have to do
is spell it forty ways
to Friday.

It's that easy.
I'm that sleazy.

I talk a good game,
but I don't know shit,
I can be absolutely everything
and obsessively nothing -
Just like one, Charles P. Stanton,
illegitimate son of an Irish Lord
and a Dublin University graduate,
the richest man in Arizona;
drank blood,
ate fried rattlesnakes,
and fought Mountain Lions,
according to the 1892 Prescott newspaper.

his rule, short lived,
blown down by barrel one day
by Christeros Lucero
because good ol' Charlie
made a pass at his Sister

Make a pass at me, dirty boy,
Seduce me ...
dout the Light.

Every single demeaning,
degrading,
humiliating,
pathetic thing,
I'll do for you
and you'll do for me,
as part of The Drawing

The dirty, dirty,
dirty Drawing ...

Dementia, that filthy artist, traced in
permanent marker on your chest

And as we cry,
we'll stain

our  whore sheets

Raunchy Dark,
even,

black ...

Professional Princesses

Professional Princesses
copyright @aladreth antoinette brown
(previously published)

"I am friends with very, very few current poets." - James Wright


So much depends
upon
a good mackerel
sea change
pouring
weekend galleys,

It takes your whole life
to arrive at this moment,
you'll be a salted pigeon
or live up to
your professor's daughter
little beauty status

So much depends
upon
filling the best seats
with silly photos,
the words behind the words
of Saint Judas;
who was no saint
but a dull and flat
kisser;
a little weasel,
really

So much depends
upon
Louisiana sand bags,
obnoxious windbags,

our obituaries
we write, almighty father
constellation mathematics, bells
dull iamb crackling fried pieces
in the temple steeple
virgins, light your lamps,
here we come ...

this will be our
one noteworthy cause

So much depends
upon
the will of grass;
if it bends or breaks
it's not funny
(okay, it's sort of funny)

So much depends upon
being slim;
not from AIDS
or meth,
but expanded
search functions
on our browser button,
slim, slim, slim
vapourous men
burning white as they march,
and women of uit
(I can't read
my writing here over a
polar bear's ass)
ah, wait, I mean
"women of wit"
princesses of the bomb,
the hit

This week
someone came to the
Ephrath Land
took the holy bull head
of the camel back
mountain - and now,
he's the Holy Ghost.

So much depends
upon ...
Him.

I don’t get shrugs. They make no sense to me.

I don’t get shrugs. They make no sense to me.
copyright @aladreth antoinette brown


It was on a beach that
the skies became dark.
Aircraft named
"D-E-L-I cious"
 flew over,

Suddenly
there was an alien invasion,
hovering crafts
spinning,
turning the skies
to green and black.

There was a major
attractive woman
in a shrug and flower dress.
She had a cigarette hanging out
of her mouth,
a designer bag on her shoulder,
snappy sandals on her feet.

It started to rain.
I saw it all before
(shhhh) it happened,
psychotherapists
would ask me later
"Who did you want to kill?"

There was a gas station there
and I was backed in to a janitor closet,
ass against
a skeleton and a mop,
my glasses were stained
with my tears
for whenever I would bow my head,
"God please make the alien ships stop,"
the salty liquid mess hit the lens.

This reminded me of when I taught
Sunday School
and I'd tell the children
to bow their heads to pray before snack
and Sarah in her pink church dress
would say to me
"I don't know how to bow my head."

It's funny the things you think of
when you are all out of love,
out of searches, out of options,
but damn him to hell, you have a poetry book,
and a sexy post card saying he's still in love.

And this, my dear lovelies,
this, is why I am still not over him,
his passive aggressive
head games
get me every time.

I could drink pure carrot juice,
70 calories
a serving
and not lose anything.

All my gambling got me
no where,
that road rode out, baby.

Finally at the day of "no hope"
I took down my song
about fire hydrants,
hairy chests,
and wheels.

The number is up now
in blue mesh stockings
and bleeding tongue chains
in the court room,

I tell you
the beach,
castle with the beach,
sunset in the chair on the beach,
eruptions on the beach,
The beach is empty now,
orange broken over nipple, gone
bawdy, broken lips to thorns,
so very gone,
the woman's advocate-boy feminist,
long gone
My hands are stained with
gold vein paint,
clay under my fancy claws.

I made a beautiful bracelet
with the clay - half African,
half Australian.

All the inmates
commented how
capital G-R-E-A-T it was
and I felt pride today
because prisoners,
my love,
prisoners know.






previously published May 13, 2008

Three Days Notice

Three Days Notice

© @aladreth antoinette brown



If I traded it all, if I gave it all away for one thing, just for one thing, if I sorted it out, if I knew all about this one thing, wouldn't that be something? - Finger Eleven


"It's hard to get by when your arse is the size Of a small country." - Divine Comedy





Three days notice

how about three and half
in Native country

drawn, drowned in tears

bounder
blounder
blunder
fleet
sleep

Take aspirin.
It's good for the body.

Eat banana.
It's good for the body.

Mark lines,
chase me,

never leave me

I remember that
Sunday morning
on the way to church
my atheist boy and me

It was sunny and hot,
the air was fresh,

we stopped at a bagel shoppe
and I ordered lox

he warned me against it ~
even wagged his finger
in my face

"You'll hate it."

"You're wasting your money."

But I like salmon!

And I'm stubborn.
When I put my mind to something
I will not give in

so I ate the nasty lox

and anyone who tells you
it ain't nasty,
they are lying

(I don't care
how posh they are)

Even the trees swayed
to hypnotize
as we sat on very small chairs,

much too small
for the size of our arses
(even tho,
you are right!
you do have a tom cruise arse!)

It was such a beautiful morning

and that afternoon
I loved you so hard
I pulled a groin
in my muscle

(or the other way around -
when you are a captive of
love, nothing makes sense)

that night we sat on top
of each other,
listened to the garden sing
in harmonicas and banjos
and teased the johnny
who poured our drinks

you returned to
that shit boygirl boy
who watched you while you slept
and sat bare bottomed
on your chair

I came home
and tried to live without you

you can see
I make a miserable
bloody mess
of that

Today I discovered
someone I really like
lives in the most god-awful
ugly blue house

and I like them so much,
they are so damn cool,

but I'm stubborn,
so I'm going to still hate
that ugly blue house.