An outstretched hand, long left without hope, is birthing a rescue through the breaching surface. The light strikes diamond, splintering a resonant choreography that rewards such courage, and light dances through the soul... Love’s wisdom is buoyant.
March 19, 2010
March 12, 2010
The Billy Cart Derby
Dusk was fast creeping through the dampening atmosphere as we pulled into the car park at my children's new primary school. We've been attending only a matter of weeks and have had all of the "new kid" issues that go with a new school and then some...
The damp caressed the flesh as we excitedly leaped out of the car, daughters Colby, 8, Teagan, 6, and me lifting Jack, 10, into his wheelchair, helmets in hand, ready for the battle ahead:
The Annual Billy Cart Derby.
(NB: For those of you unaware, my son Jack wagers a daily battle against his non-compliant body. Disabled by a brain trauma injury he is formally diagnosed with quadriplegic cerebral palsy and traits of autism spectrum disorder. He and his sisters all go to this new school...and what an awesome institution it is.)
Real billy carts! These were the good old death traps from the days of old, built with old pram wheels, planks of discarded timber, ropes and ocky straps, chains and bad paint jobs. The haphazard vehicular concoction where you plunge down an incline unfettered by petty, silly things like brakes, accelerating into the hay bales unable to avoid the impending and inevitable injuries. Remember those?
And every construct you could imagine was proudly paraded before the entire anticipatory school community prior to the big race... Balloons cleverly engulfing the vehicle for "added buffering upon crash". Extra tinsel and bling as the girls were sure that would add to the experience. Some sparse and ready for impending destruction right up to a fully scaled VW combi billy cart (scoff) and every eclectic mix in between.
Families could construct their own billy carts and compete in the derby. Luckily, or perhaps conveniently, I have a kid on wheels :) Inspired by the recent winter Olympics and the madness of the luge/bobsled teams the kids and I had strategically designed a way of throwing ourselves all over Jack and his wheelchair so we could take the slope and ride the challenge together!
The construct began with the base of Jack's sports chair. It was ingenious design, balancing the weight with a calculated slight lean to Teagan's position by the rear (me). Rear position (mine) was with my feet on the mono-wheels (the two little wheels on the rear of the wheelchair to stop it go over backwards when we pull a mono) and gripping fiercely the handles. Jack was driving behind the cardboard, formula one designed, aerodynamic front wing at his feet (an illegal add-on). The girls on either side of the chair, elbow and knee guards on, helmets semi-hiding their humiliated faces, their chin-straps muffling their embarrassed "Mum!"s. Oh yes... Team Hocking had arrived.
The track itself was legendary: on the back hill of the school, it was steep and grassy, the hay bales placed either side of the track and for added adventure, right in the turn that was major crash zone the track was scattered with the sea-mine, indestructible, spiky balls of the chestnut tree (if you've ever sat on one of those...well, let me tell you from experience, you wouldn't do it twice). A turn at the bottom of the slope was the inevitable end for all bar two of the teams. And to add to it, the Police were attending (yep, real ones) with their speed guns, clocking our pace as we torn strips from the earth.
(Seriously, how many schools would do this?! Yes, we all signed ridiculous waivers :))
Reconnaissance: Jack and I took position amid the cheering audience. Teagan went to the bottom of the track looking like a marshall. Colby was checking things out at the start line. Jack and I were positioned right at crash zone where we saw kids stacking at spectacular speeds. A little girl ended up with 15 stitches amongst other minor injuries here and there. My son's contagious laughter guiding the crowd... laughter and cheering, family and community...
Our turn: We gathered at the start line. My eldest daughter was concerned she may not look good (Mum once again explaining "It's not about what you look like, it's about who you are!"). A hushed caution had taken the crowd. The commentator is introducing us: it became clear by his intro they were expecting a slow and precious walk down so the "disabled kid" could have a go.
They were so wrong. My son, the kid with no hope of physically saving himself, loves a good crash more than most normal humans.
We kicked off!
Kids hanging on, we had agreed we would all howl like the bobsledders and they did it proud. Hollering preemptive crash I powered behind the chair, thighs pumping, feet pounding the earth until I leapt upon the mono-wheels and took control! In the corner of my eye I could see the crowd agape in horror that we would do this! But, oh, the beam upon my boy's face, the encouragement my girls were yelling to one another...
The crowd rapidly warmed as we journeyed on and let themselves feel the courage and utter joy of my boy just being a boy :)
We had hit 47km/h according to the Police speed gun when Colby let go and tried to glamourously flick her hair, unglamorously came asunder and skewed off, a-spin into the right hand, hay barricade.
The cart's weight was compromised.
The dreaded corner was upon us...
Teagan and I clung for dear life, Jack raised his arms, "woohooing", in welcome of the inevitable...
Heeling to the right, Teagan and I with arms like rubber bands, our bodies denying the acceleration, the chair (billy cart) leapt from the earth and took air. Regaining land on the right, single, front wheel, we spewed and sprawled in a skidding, scattered, tangled mess across the track, sliding a gravelly glide in a multi-level heap to a thudding stop against the hay bails.
Silence.
We lay in a heap, not game to move for injury discovery. The horror struck crowd were holding their breath... all that could be heard was one legendary boy's hysterical laughter,
"Ha ha ha!!! Great crash, Mum! That was awesome! We did it, Mum! Let's do it again! What a great crash!"
Quick Epilogue: No injuries aquired. Much laughter from all parties. Rest assured I am no fool: All of us were safe. Jack was strapped in and braced as usual by Mum. And when we landed, by the time my body took the blow of the hay barricade, I had wrapped beneath the wheelchair and my son's helmeted head was upon my chest, vibrating with giggles.
As has always happened over the past decade, I have lightning reflexes: if my son is falling I will take the fall for him and he will land upon me. In every way :)
The damp caressed the flesh as we excitedly leaped out of the car, daughters Colby, 8, Teagan, 6, and me lifting Jack, 10, into his wheelchair, helmets in hand, ready for the battle ahead:
The Annual Billy Cart Derby.
(NB: For those of you unaware, my son Jack wagers a daily battle against his non-compliant body. Disabled by a brain trauma injury he is formally diagnosed with quadriplegic cerebral palsy and traits of autism spectrum disorder. He and his sisters all go to this new school...and what an awesome institution it is.)
Real billy carts! These were the good old death traps from the days of old, built with old pram wheels, planks of discarded timber, ropes and ocky straps, chains and bad paint jobs. The haphazard vehicular concoction where you plunge down an incline unfettered by petty, silly things like brakes, accelerating into the hay bales unable to avoid the impending and inevitable injuries. Remember those?
And every construct you could imagine was proudly paraded before the entire anticipatory school community prior to the big race... Balloons cleverly engulfing the vehicle for "added buffering upon crash". Extra tinsel and bling as the girls were sure that would add to the experience. Some sparse and ready for impending destruction right up to a fully scaled VW combi billy cart (scoff) and every eclectic mix in between.
Families could construct their own billy carts and compete in the derby. Luckily, or perhaps conveniently, I have a kid on wheels :) Inspired by the recent winter Olympics and the madness of the luge/bobsled teams the kids and I had strategically designed a way of throwing ourselves all over Jack and his wheelchair so we could take the slope and ride the challenge together!
The construct began with the base of Jack's sports chair. It was ingenious design, balancing the weight with a calculated slight lean to Teagan's position by the rear (me). Rear position (mine) was with my feet on the mono-wheels (the two little wheels on the rear of the wheelchair to stop it go over backwards when we pull a mono) and gripping fiercely the handles. Jack was driving behind the cardboard, formula one designed, aerodynamic front wing at his feet (an illegal add-on). The girls on either side of the chair, elbow and knee guards on, helmets semi-hiding their humiliated faces, their chin-straps muffling their embarrassed "Mum!"s. Oh yes... Team Hocking had arrived.
The track itself was legendary: on the back hill of the school, it was steep and grassy, the hay bales placed either side of the track and for added adventure, right in the turn that was major crash zone the track was scattered with the sea-mine, indestructible, spiky balls of the chestnut tree (if you've ever sat on one of those...well, let me tell you from experience, you wouldn't do it twice). A turn at the bottom of the slope was the inevitable end for all bar two of the teams. And to add to it, the Police were attending (yep, real ones) with their speed guns, clocking our pace as we torn strips from the earth.
(Seriously, how many schools would do this?! Yes, we all signed ridiculous waivers :))
Reconnaissance: Jack and I took position amid the cheering audience. Teagan went to the bottom of the track looking like a marshall. Colby was checking things out at the start line. Jack and I were positioned right at crash zone where we saw kids stacking at spectacular speeds. A little girl ended up with 15 stitches amongst other minor injuries here and there. My son's contagious laughter guiding the crowd... laughter and cheering, family and community...
Our turn: We gathered at the start line. My eldest daughter was concerned she may not look good (Mum once again explaining "It's not about what you look like, it's about who you are!"). A hushed caution had taken the crowd. The commentator is introducing us: it became clear by his intro they were expecting a slow and precious walk down so the "disabled kid" could have a go.
They were so wrong. My son, the kid with no hope of physically saving himself, loves a good crash more than most normal humans.
We kicked off!
Kids hanging on, we had agreed we would all howl like the bobsledders and they did it proud. Hollering preemptive crash I powered behind the chair, thighs pumping, feet pounding the earth until I leapt upon the mono-wheels and took control! In the corner of my eye I could see the crowd agape in horror that we would do this! But, oh, the beam upon my boy's face, the encouragement my girls were yelling to one another...
The crowd rapidly warmed as we journeyed on and let themselves feel the courage and utter joy of my boy just being a boy :)
We had hit 47km/h according to the Police speed gun when Colby let go and tried to glamourously flick her hair, unglamorously came asunder and skewed off, a-spin into the right hand, hay barricade.
The cart's weight was compromised.
The dreaded corner was upon us...
Teagan and I clung for dear life, Jack raised his arms, "woohooing", in welcome of the inevitable...
Heeling to the right, Teagan and I with arms like rubber bands, our bodies denying the acceleration, the chair (billy cart) leapt from the earth and took air. Regaining land on the right, single, front wheel, we spewed and sprawled in a skidding, scattered, tangled mess across the track, sliding a gravelly glide in a multi-level heap to a thudding stop against the hay bails.
Silence.
We lay in a heap, not game to move for injury discovery. The horror struck crowd were holding their breath... all that could be heard was one legendary boy's hysterical laughter,
"Ha ha ha!!! Great crash, Mum! That was awesome! We did it, Mum! Let's do it again! What a great crash!"
Quick Epilogue: No injuries aquired. Much laughter from all parties. Rest assured I am no fool: All of us were safe. Jack was strapped in and braced as usual by Mum. And when we landed, by the time my body took the blow of the hay barricade, I had wrapped beneath the wheelchair and my son's helmeted head was upon my chest, vibrating with giggles.
As has always happened over the past decade, I have lightning reflexes: if my son is falling I will take the fall for him and he will land upon me. In every way :)
March 8, 2010
I, too, have been to India
Before a team of specialists
An artist paints her face to feed expectation of a conditioned audience.
The visual is pleasing,
Her curls, her features, her eyes, her eyes...
We will highlight, lift, gloss
Her eyes will pop.
Precision in the layering,
Confidence in the strike of tool,
The artist is meticulous and
The canvas is exquisite.
All step back, admiring as only their own vanity could contain...
Such beauty. Such beauty.
Escaping the outer corner of the left eye
A single tear
Not falling, nor coursing, nor rolling...
This tear disperses a flat cloud
Across the luminous expectant angle
Of cheek.
A weeping flush
Its filth housed within its clandestine travel,
An insidious memory of ongoing
infection.
India.
The rose of India
The body of flesh and filth,
Heart and karma,
Her rose placed infection in the feminine eye.
She placed grief and isolation in the rose of this canvas.
Humanity, stark within the soft petal curvature of the Indian heart,
A rusted populous,
Absolute in presence,
True to experience,
Unencumbered by perspective...
This rose owns this canvas.
This tear owns India.
A dire humanity is housed within the weeping dew of this dispersion,
Infection...
Dark, aged eyes project unfettered gratitude for the toe tag that will carve from him his saleable organs upon his immediate death. Casting off the wealth of gratitude indifferently ,an entrepreneur awaits his income.
A mirror to the artist’s frustration as she patches the incessant weep...
Wailing of a newborn girl engulfed and silenced by the Ganges as she plummets to the watery chill of unwanted.
A new wave of infection bleeds across the canvas cheek.
Blood runs between the fingers of the healer, one placenta, two cords, two souls that never knew atrocity would not welcome them.
The canvas could be ruined by this...the artist tries to recover with a medium waterproof.
This same canvas brushes the flies from the babas’ gaping, retching mouth...blood trails his path to his dying place.
And humanity steps over him,
On their way.
Humanity steps over us,
On their way.
Humanity ignores its atrocity,
On their way.
To know Human
An infection claimed the feminine eye
Dispersing so gently a raw wisdom
To pass on.
The canvas is teacher.
Humanity her pupil.
She steps beneath the lights, waves to some pupil, smiles at her host...
A single tear escapes....
Melissa Hocking 2010
An artist paints her face to feed expectation of a conditioned audience.
The visual is pleasing,
Her curls, her features, her eyes, her eyes...
We will highlight, lift, gloss
Her eyes will pop.
Precision in the layering,
Confidence in the strike of tool,
The artist is meticulous and
The canvas is exquisite.
All step back, admiring as only their own vanity could contain...
Such beauty. Such beauty.
Escaping the outer corner of the left eye
A single tear
Not falling, nor coursing, nor rolling...
This tear disperses a flat cloud
Across the luminous expectant angle
Of cheek.
A weeping flush
Its filth housed within its clandestine travel,
An insidious memory of ongoing
infection.
India.
The rose of India
The body of flesh and filth,
Heart and karma,
Her rose placed infection in the feminine eye.
She placed grief and isolation in the rose of this canvas.
Humanity, stark within the soft petal curvature of the Indian heart,
A rusted populous,
Absolute in presence,
True to experience,
Unencumbered by perspective...
This rose owns this canvas.
This tear owns India.
A dire humanity is housed within the weeping dew of this dispersion,
Infection...
Dark, aged eyes project unfettered gratitude for the toe tag that will carve from him his saleable organs upon his immediate death. Casting off the wealth of gratitude indifferently ,an entrepreneur awaits his income.
A mirror to the artist’s frustration as she patches the incessant weep...
Wailing of a newborn girl engulfed and silenced by the Ganges as she plummets to the watery chill of unwanted.
A new wave of infection bleeds across the canvas cheek.
Blood runs between the fingers of the healer, one placenta, two cords, two souls that never knew atrocity would not welcome them.
The canvas could be ruined by this...the artist tries to recover with a medium waterproof.
This same canvas brushes the flies from the babas’ gaping, retching mouth...blood trails his path to his dying place.
And humanity steps over him,
On their way.
Humanity steps over us,
On their way.
Humanity ignores its atrocity,
On their way.
To know Human
An infection claimed the feminine eye
Dispersing so gently a raw wisdom
To pass on.
The canvas is teacher.
Humanity her pupil.
She steps beneath the lights, waves to some pupil, smiles at her host...
A single tear escapes....
Melissa Hocking 2010
Departure
A wicked verbal spin
Repetitive in demand of answer desired.
Tone rising, repulsive
With each repetition
For the answer is not forthcoming...
The opponent refusing to engage she becomes the mirror,
His venom reflecting back upon himself.
Intensity accelerating with each reflective bounce,
The frustration explodes
Dripping down the blood stained bars of
An adolescent cage.
The futility dispersed
The potency diminishes and desperation takes grip.
Silence.
His eyes drop to earth,
Hands cradling the senseless, tangled mind.
Struggling for clarity escaping still, confusion...
In pause, her extrinsic gaze reaching into the prison
she draws boundary as gently as strength allows
“I do not want you back”
Frantic, he lunges upon his ego,
Hollering retaliation,
Resonating disconnected communication
He storms an immaturity that can only venture to regret.
A door slams.
Repulsion.
Disappointment weighs the generous heart
Scarred by the remnant acid tear.
The reflection stills,
Draws fresh, clear breath and
Resolutely,
softly,
She departs.
Melissa Hocking 2009
March 4, 2010
The Mirror
This isn't mine, but I love it so :)
Every now and then I'll catch myself complaining, perhaps even whinging, and realising the very things that have irritated me from another are my own to visit first. A long time ago a friend said to me, "True mastery is to look at yourself first..."
A Mirror
My friend for you,
A mirror,
You are for me,
Hug, I will hug you,
You hug me
A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Respect, I will respect you,
You will respect me.
A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Accept, I will accept you,
Accept me.
A mirror for you,
A mirror,
You are for me.
Every now and then I'll catch myself complaining, perhaps even whinging, and realising the very things that have irritated me from another are my own to visit first. A long time ago a friend said to me, "True mastery is to look at yourself first..."
A Mirror
My friend for you,
A mirror,
You are for me,
Hug, I will hug you,
You hug me
A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Respect, I will respect you,
You will respect me.
A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Accept, I will accept you,
Accept me.
A mirror for you,
A mirror,
You are for me.
March 3, 2010
Self Portrait - The Lacing
She cannot see her beauty.
Remnant structure disables a vision here,
as resonance accelerates further,
further.
Take me Home. Take me Home.
What deluded us, re-wrote a contract so impossible, a brutality of self, a destruction in soul...
She walks seeing so much, too much, seeing minds and thoughts and tactics,
Too much, too much...
She sees the whole. And they do not.
Nobody sees as she sees, and nobody sees her...
Her magnificence despite the complexity
Forgotten love for a five year old
Everything a man could want and more than any man have
A presence so rich, such intoxication,
Her departure creates an opiate agony of withdrawal apparent that it is punishable upon her
She walks alone
Dancing amid light, instrumental upon the strings of life,
Enamoured by compassion,
Her weaponry is truth.
She rides an all-present stallion of bliss in her work
They grasp, they clutch, they need, they cry,
Her embrace is full,
Real,
True.
Her children clutched in her heart, wrapped to her stride, alighting in her laughter, the shine in the shards of her eyes,
Her family like arrowhead unstructured, present, protected
She is scout
She is statistic
She steps forward her vision’s lens is them...
She walks alone
Sore wasted heart, withered from ongoing,
unending generosity of sharing, holding, comforting, soothing, embracing, uplifting,
giving, giving, giving...
Greyed and cast upon the earth,
shrivelled and fatigued,
a pulse as strong as the resolute warrior will allow in gentility,
the damage is present...
The wasted heart refuses reception
She walks alone
Opacity guarding the withered drum is deteriorating,
Fragmented, frenetic,
Reception is apparent, beauty visible from core
She walks...
as fingers are lacing into hers
Melissa Hocking February 2010
Remnant structure disables a vision here,
as resonance accelerates further,
further.
Take me Home. Take me Home.
What deluded us, re-wrote a contract so impossible, a brutality of self, a destruction in soul...
She walks seeing so much, too much, seeing minds and thoughts and tactics,
Too much, too much...
She sees the whole. And they do not.
Nobody sees as she sees, and nobody sees her...
Her magnificence despite the complexity
Forgotten love for a five year old
Everything a man could want and more than any man have
A presence so rich, such intoxication,
Her departure creates an opiate agony of withdrawal apparent that it is punishable upon her
She walks alone
Dancing amid light, instrumental upon the strings of life,
Enamoured by compassion,
Her weaponry is truth.
She rides an all-present stallion of bliss in her work
They grasp, they clutch, they need, they cry,
Her embrace is full,
Real,
True.
Her children clutched in her heart, wrapped to her stride, alighting in her laughter, the shine in the shards of her eyes,
Her family like arrowhead unstructured, present, protected
She is scout
She is statistic
She steps forward her vision’s lens is them...
She walks alone
Sore wasted heart, withered from ongoing,
unending generosity of sharing, holding, comforting, soothing, embracing, uplifting,
giving, giving, giving...
Greyed and cast upon the earth,
shrivelled and fatigued,
a pulse as strong as the resolute warrior will allow in gentility,
the damage is present...
The wasted heart refuses reception
She walks alone
Opacity guarding the withered drum is deteriorating,
Fragmented, frenetic,
Reception is apparent, beauty visible from core
She walks...
as fingers are lacing into hers
Melissa Hocking February 2010
Longing for You – An Unspoken Invitation
Longing for you
Elaborately.
Luxurious and indulgent, deliciously intimate, courageously wise, warm and sure and steady...
Without guise or games, without fear or manipulations...
Longing for you
Anticipating
Rendering me a traveller within, seeking that which I would ask of another so that I do not deflect you with utter ineptitude.
Longing for you
Aching
Hoping. Praying. Wishing. Affirming. Asking. Believing . And in doing so I have kept you from me. Pushing you into non-existence. Denying the greater law of your presence, keeping you from me. That which I’ve longed for...
Longing for you
Imploring
Seeking not another soul, for you are already the deepest recesses, the fragmented splinters of this withered heart. This heart’s filigree scars curl in delight at the expression of the soul you are
Longing for you
Inviting
Isolated in our connection, two felines curled about one another, observant and merged before the smouldering fireplace,
Stepping out of life and into presence, fingers laced, souls ecstatically, blissfully entwined...
Ascending
In absolution.
Surrendering
For you.
Copyright Melissa Hocking 2010
Elaborately.
Luxurious and indulgent, deliciously intimate, courageously wise, warm and sure and steady...
Without guise or games, without fear or manipulations...
Longing for you
Anticipating
Rendering me a traveller within, seeking that which I would ask of another so that I do not deflect you with utter ineptitude.
Longing for you
Aching
Hoping. Praying. Wishing. Affirming. Asking. Believing . And in doing so I have kept you from me. Pushing you into non-existence. Denying the greater law of your presence, keeping you from me. That which I’ve longed for...
Longing for you
Imploring
Seeking not another soul, for you are already the deepest recesses, the fragmented splinters of this withered heart. This heart’s filigree scars curl in delight at the expression of the soul you are
Longing for you
Inviting
Isolated in our connection, two felines curled about one another, observant and merged before the smouldering fireplace,
Stepping out of life and into presence, fingers laced, souls ecstatically, blissfully entwined...
Ascending
In absolution.
Surrendering
For you.
Copyright Melissa Hocking 2010
Unrequited Violation
Warning: This piece does house offensive language
Intellectual flutterings dance between two newfound friends.
Delight that glimpse is sighted and captured of a mind seeming exciting,
A man presenting beautiful,
Engaged, the tango ensues,
The sweetness devouring she that would taste...
He does not recognise strength.
He falters to find challenge in meeting, in match...
She staggers, reassessing, withdraws...
“Fear has conquered you today, girl.
Where does that leave you now and in the future...”
His jaw line harsh, sharp, it’s aggression plain in its thrust,
Manipulation his sword...
He seeks to do harm...
His power is flimsy in the face of intelligent femme.
He falls to what he feels is the only weapon left in his ego-bound cache that will overpower...
“You’re gonna taste my cock, girl. Can you taste it? Now. Taste it...”
Abusive, explosive in tantrum
The disobeyed plan ruptures in foul indiscretion ,
Violence
Of obscene descriptive.
“I will tear you to pieces as I enter you...”
The abhorrence overwhelming
“You will scream as I thrust harder...
You like pain, don’t you, girl?
Don’t you?!
Don’t you, girl?!!”
The demand enveloping the bloodlust violence ,
Peeling away amid his verbal parry and the premeditated violation is exposed
“I’m going to fuck your brains out, girl, until you are screaming...then I’ll deliver you again...”
He shouts mechanics not movement.
Shrieks sex not sensuality.
Expels violence.
Violence.
Seeking to overpower he chooses assault.
Her self is her claymore.
He pulls his weapon.
She depresses the trigger.
The violation falls flaccid
Melissa Hocking 2010
Delight that glimpse is sighted and captured of a mind seeming exciting,
A man presenting beautiful,
Engaged, the tango ensues,
The sweetness devouring she that would taste...
He does not recognise strength.
He falters to find challenge in meeting, in match...
She staggers, reassessing, withdraws...
“Fear has conquered you today, girl.
Where does that leave you now and in the future...”
His jaw line harsh, sharp, it’s aggression plain in its thrust,
Manipulation his sword...
He seeks to do harm...
His power is flimsy in the face of intelligent femme.
He falls to what he feels is the only weapon left in his ego-bound cache that will overpower...
“You’re gonna taste my cock, girl. Can you taste it? Now. Taste it...”
Abusive, explosive in tantrum
The disobeyed plan ruptures in foul indiscretion ,
Violence
Of obscene descriptive.
“I will tear you to pieces as I enter you...”
The abhorrence overwhelming
“You will scream as I thrust harder...
You like pain, don’t you, girl?
Don’t you?!
Don’t you, girl?!!”
The demand enveloping the bloodlust violence ,
Peeling away amid his verbal parry and the premeditated violation is exposed
“I’m going to fuck your brains out, girl, until you are screaming...then I’ll deliver you again...”
He shouts mechanics not movement.
Shrieks sex not sensuality.
Expels violence.
Violence.
Seeking to overpower he chooses assault.
Her self is her claymore.
He pulls his weapon.
She depresses the trigger.
The violation falls flaccid
Melissa Hocking 2010
Truth's Cost (A Curious Calvin Klein Dialogue)
What is that you’re wearing?
That’s Truth, my friend
You’re wearing Truth?
Yes. I got it on sale.
Really ? And what is the going price for Truth?
$30.
$30 only?! How it is Truth costs so little? Was it a sample” of truth? A tester? Perhaps others had tried it out...
No, no. It hadn’t been touched upon...perhaps it was because it had no packaging: it was there on its own...the last...people were just ignoring it...
I find it better without the packaging.
Yes, Truth with packaging just isn’t Truth.
Actually I believe Truth in its various packaging gets re-labelled: “Reality”
Oh? I had heard it was “Perspective”
Well , yes, “Reality” is “Perspective”, the eau de toilette of Truth. A diluted version of Truth distinguished only by the packaging. A synthetic impression that could never substantiate replacement.
I think I’ll invest $30 in Truth myself. An opportunity not to be missed: Truth for $30
If you’ll wear Truth, make haste, for there is only one Truth per person...and I am hearing rumor that Truth has been discontinued.
Apparently replaced by “Euphoria”.
When you find your Truth, remember, it is devoid of packaging and as such,
there are no guarantees... ;)
Melissa Hocking 2010
That’s Truth, my friend
You’re wearing Truth?
Yes. I got it on sale.
Really ? And what is the going price for Truth?
$30.
$30 only?! How it is Truth costs so little? Was it a sample” of truth? A tester? Perhaps others had tried it out...
No, no. It hadn’t been touched upon...perhaps it was because it had no packaging: it was there on its own...the last...people were just ignoring it...
I find it better without the packaging.
Yes, Truth with packaging just isn’t Truth.
Actually I believe Truth in its various packaging gets re-labelled: “Reality”
Oh? I had heard it was “Perspective”
Well , yes, “Reality” is “Perspective”, the eau de toilette of Truth. A diluted version of Truth distinguished only by the packaging. A synthetic impression that could never substantiate replacement.
I think I’ll invest $30 in Truth myself. An opportunity not to be missed: Truth for $30
If you’ll wear Truth, make haste, for there is only one Truth per person...and I am hearing rumor that Truth has been discontinued.
Apparently replaced by “Euphoria”.
When you find your Truth, remember, it is devoid of packaging and as such,
there are no guarantees... ;)
Melissa Hocking 2010
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