Saturday, 25 July 2015
I was white until I shed my skin,
Looked to depths of my cavern within.
Same was I to the woman, child, man,
Whose original shell was black, brown or tan.
Blood, bones, beating heart, thinking brain.
Walking Earth but a mere human stain.
Members of an anthropoid evolving race.
Sharing an overpopulated crowded space.
Colour of hair, shape of eyes, no more
Relevant if only to start a war.
Idolatry, false prophets, prayers to gods,
Proselytizing ideology competing, at odds.
Racist hatred blood shed, time wasted, lost.
Eviscerated humanity, and for what cost?
In end we return to dust, we disappear,
Gone with corporeal, prejudices and fear.
Equanimity achieved only in the ground.
Past due, hope for the living to be found.
History passes, time melts, into ether fades,
Till marching men storm carrying blades.
Cycle repeats, wounds unseal, hatred reborn,
Nothing learned, for our souls we must mourn.
(c) 2015. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, 17 July 2015
“Mmm,” moaned the woman, her breathy voice undulating with desire. “The sheath hugs those curves akin to how a Herve Leger bandage dress acts like bondage for the hips—tight, barely there, while letting the cambers do all the talking. The deep grooves between the arched lips of the almond emotional core, bursting with base animal instincts: sex, lust, fear, elation, anger, all intricately intertwined to make you sweat. Stiff and hard, the core connector of mind and body embraces the fragility with which one wrong move would render it impotent and flaccid. Straddling it from the top, two peach-sized mounds, taut and tender hold the key to you unleashing new moves."
“Dad, what are you listening to?” Sally asked, peering into the driver side window of her father, Morton's, car that was parked in the driveway. Morton fumbled with the volume dial, embarrassed to have been caught red-handed. Morton closed his window before turning off the ignition. Shoving the door slightly ajar—Sally’s body pressed up against it with the full weight of her twelve years—Morton had no exit route. “I’m telling mom you’re listening to porn.”
“It’s not porn. It’s work.” Sally shook her head. She was so embarrassed for her dad. “I swear it’s not porn!”
“I may not be a doctor like you, but I know what I heard.” She remained unconvinced—she knew porn when she heard it. After all, she was a child of the Internet age.
“Here.” Morton shoved the audiobook’s case at her. “Proof it’s not porn.” Sally fingered the case that read ‘Fifty Shades of Grey Matter.’ Sally’s mouth fell agape.
“It’s a neurology audio textbook I’m listening to for work. Sex sells—even for medicine.”
© 2015. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.