September EP

“Beautiful…inspirational songwriting…her debut EP, Paint by Numbers makes you want to stop and take a moment to enjoy the company around you and the beauty the world has to offer.”

-Shelbie Young, COUFest Photographer, Musical Connoisseur

T H I S   S E P T E M B E R

SarahDinwiddieAlbumCover

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PAINT BY NUMBERS

Original EP 

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Writer: Sarah Dinwiddie

Producer: Charlie Ross

Album Artist: Luis Bergos

Editing

image

Black scratch

pen: marking up words,

rewriting history,

scripting loops over misspelled screw-ups,

unwarranted freckles,

happenings.

The word planks, the dotted i seeing and

still bleeding through.

I wish they wouldn’t.

Didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Each pen stroke is a bar

caging half-seen thinks

and scars

into ink.

Each phrase a car full of half-crazed

passengers screaming something

that sounds like truth

and looks like pimpled, braced, trembling youth.

Honest Thoughts from a Wedding

One fresh foam white bodice grew from a chitin mermaid tail;

bride: bliss was the veil fanning from her forehead.

I wear fresh cut hair, short chic on tall chick;

new feels model beautiful—in the wake of bridal bliss, feels magical.

Back of the room view: young men tied to cameras aimed,

clipping moments out of time to hang up and dry.

Preacher strings short thoughts with too-long threads;

I daydream: who is the photographer in dapper threads behind his lens?

Hearts and mouths erupt—“Man and wife!”—now it’s time for cake.

The sun and his moon cut with hands and hearts eclipsed.

Now: Let’s dance!

My eyes lock with a best friend, words unspoken said:

what marvelous mountaintop moments; what handsome single men.

Mass-Produced Reverence

Sound kernels baptized on behalf of holy veterans flick my face,
shot by elastic radio waves,

striking my eyes, stinging sights into a pixely Warhol style of
vomiting violent neon signs—
kosher brands and canvased advertisements,
Public Service Announcements:

rows of SPAM cans burping tobacco spit over the sides,
rows of green gun barrels with purple flowers flailing out and into the mud,
rows of Marine wives and children with faces blue and black and yellow and

CRACK. Another sharp kernel. SMACK. Another automated sentence.

Like postcard stamps punched out
one right after another
sending out to all corners of the States
the message of conditioned reverence:
blessed art thou for being Saved by the Military.

 

For my sister.

Murder on Your Tongue

Photo by Mateus Williams via 41.media.tublr.com

This is what I hear
When out of that heart
You speak:

Like grown men of an African bush tribe
Clip-slipping their feet in the hot dust
Around a broke-fire
White dark dirt shoves up
Out of the roots of the earth and
Races up on the heels of them and over the high-topped feather headdresses of grown men
And rising up and out the sound of an overwhelming shout of challenge and victory and defeat
As the sound rages out of their muscle-y burnt bodies and their heart beats
Step-step faster
Out—
Run
Out—
Shout
Out—
Live

And then you are
The one who ran ahead
To shove his spear first into the lions mouth
But got torn in half by its jaws.

This is what I hear
When out of that heart
You speak:

Death to mother
Your sister
Your brother
To your lover

Like every other somebody out there
Is a lion that needs to be taken
Down by a man
Like you.

Poem originally published in Promethia Literary Magazine, Spring 2013.

Hair

Dirty fiber optic chords

clumped into burnt hemp rope:

hair. Each dead cell strand a

weak wisp of my fragile femininity.

Male friends, almost-loves

drape banners of caution over me—“Men like

Their women with long locks.”—

but I ache to tear off the dirty blonde titles

and watch them flutter to the floor between

silver blades.

 

 

 

The Coffee House on Cherry Street

 

Black breeze pulls strangers’ marijuana smoke

Between deck splinters, up our nauseous noses;

Night brings to Cherry Street a symphony

of multicolored voices, tires tearing wet pavement,

Urban wind whistling through metal sheets.

 

Under the too-sweet-cake smell I stay

Because you stay with me. It forms a fist

In the back of my throat, but I stay

Because you stay with me.

 

Black silhouettes behind your slanted shoulders

Lean in, spread lips into each other, know;

Night brings to Cherry Street a subtle show

Of red neon signs, bursting beams of headlights,

Christmas strings suspending us in a yellow glow.

 

Your lit eyes, innocent, watch me watching them;

Your mouth smiles sweetly. Blush rises on this pale face

as it turns away, that you won’t watch me watching them;

Your mouth smiles sweetly.