4

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

when i was 4
i followed you around
my old man young
at 25 raging away
at red blooded expectation
it was on those
pavements where i walked
in my buster browns
rock hard Bazooka Joe
in my jaws learning
to crush the pain
even at 4 i
disagreed with the politics
of calling you daddy
3 hours after you
smacked my mommy in
her mouth of hate
4 was an age
of converging lives desperate
for an out away
from each other though
my post infant mind
inherently knew that this
trip would not be
the last to take
place in yours and
hers non sequitur marriage

i hate coffee now

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mbrazfieldm (c) 2024

she came on the wave of

eggy breathes of revelers

choking on designer swine

i’d never seen a soul so simple

but in coffee intertwined she

talked of your affections

so disappointed that she wasn’t

taken to New York and how those

big blue ones scowled at her

but rest assured that my face

never betrayed the offers

made to me at our cafe

in a moment of nothing

when  i thought i was something

in your words filled with emptiness

* this is an old piece from 2015/16 but i’m in love with it

y que

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mbrazfieldm (c) 2024

aquí estoy otra vez
magullada sangrienta venosa luchadora insaciable enojada y cansada
ciudad soy tu hija
golpeo peleo corro
a través de tus junglas de basura
con mis puños en mi corazón
causo estragos
cago en la injusticia
me parten los dientes por defenderte
pero madre, ¿dónde estás?
soy la saliva en el suelo de la taberna del trabajador
soy el sartén vacío en un callejón oscuro
soy el olor de la muerte en el poderoso dólar ciudad madre ¿dónde estás esta noche?
mis pies me sostienen frente al Hilton Biltmore Cecil Midnight Mission convertido en espejo perpetuo
los ojos de mi alma lloran seco y carmesí
pero me paro como tus raíces a través de la estrella guía de mi alma
a través de él más
yo soy tu gente
limpieza del río mosaico
mi dolor me colorea con un millón de tonos de guerra
soy tu hija
nuestra señora porciúncula
por vida y que

time my only mother

/ mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

time you have been my mother
a neutral righteous witness teacher priestess
self infliction my addictions there you stood
clocking the hemorrhaging of life
you not a crying virgin
me not a prodigal child
time your love is always tough
heavy handed in my thoughts
wasted in my inner voice
you continue to birth me
unto gray colored spectacle
time a savage fighter woman mother
slowly through your passing hands
do i learn to howl with pulsing throat
all of my passion all of my rage
you guide me through this valley
in front underneath above and behind
the shadow of man
where i sit betrothed
to another day of tumultuous blessing

there is poetry

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there is poetry in motion somewhere
handing out ice chips
at the gates of hell
in this house of venomous things
i saw a man beg another beat another man
how they hold their fisted hands is enchanting
i saw a woman wash her cunt in a puddle on Main another too old to share that in her prime she was a socialite
in this house of venomous things
my bones crawl at lightning speed
awareness escapes me
i saw this house of tissue thin illusion
bodies twisted intertwined into themselves
looking at eternal nothingness orange needles used to slam away the truth
in this house of venomous things
there is
i swear it
poesy in the taking of a shit in the alley
in jacking off on a bus bench
in setting one on fire because we’re too stoned to care
yes in this house of venomous things
the windows are wide open
to come and hear the silence shattered by insurmountable indifference
in the poems of our day
i know that i have seen poetry
in his suicidal rage kicking as his neck and soul snap
like any freeway flare to share a light
in this house of venomous things
born of the west to unite with the east
every prophet to her house of beautiful venomous things

The Art of Magical Overthinking – Trisha Leigh Shufelt

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I’m an artista painter, and a poet du jourmaster of many mediumswith inspiration galoremy art carries a hefty price tagI’m known by my namelove me or hate memy art is never the sameyou see, the best art is the artI create in my headat night, when the world is asleepmy art haunts me like the […]

The Art of Magical Overthinking – Trisha Leigh Shufelt