poetry

Savage Dance

The scythe told me

Your depression is a choice and a weakness

If you are a writer there are no excuses only

Discipline

The scythe is a girl who has long been a cruel woman

She judges me worse than I judge myself

Her reason lies in anger

Not the rumpled clothes sort

The burning brand of not getting what she feels entitled to

And that is me

I have told her

But she holds me close and afar and plays me with her passive aggression

I am not able to exit the game

Though it exhausts me and is

A sharp tasting whip

Sometimes it feels like

She captains my life and I am a boat

Continually drowned by stormy seas

People would say

It’s easy … just break the chains

Walk away

Tell her to go hang

Lose my number

Go fuck yourself

But I can’t do it

I have a matchbook heart

Strike me once

And I’m in it for the long haul

The perfect patsy

A groveling bullseye

It only reinforces a sense of self hate

Which she stirs with bolognese

Sadists are usually unaware

Of how much they practice their art

In every card game

She pinches, pushes and pulls

I am a lopsided puppet

The times I tried to

Go it alone

Ended badly

Sometimes the Devil

Is the only hand in the dark

And not many of us are brave enough to release all toes

Fall away without harness

Especially when it takes most of what we possess

Just to survive

So she has my life in her rubber bands

Every day she yanks me to my knees

With the nostalgic ejubulence of a professional killer

It is I fear

A form of savage dance

And only one of us will survive

Sometimes I catch myself wishing

She’ll go first

Advertisements
Standard
poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Empied of harm

Passion, you may feel it in obvious ways

How he leans in with his enveloping strength

Or, in the thunder of your chest, riding imaginary horses with your best friend

Forgetful of arithmetic and teachers who felt you’d end your days in borstel, because you did like running rings around them, didn’t you?

Regretting those petty rebellions later

Then in the crisp light and imagined stampede

Thrashing to the furthest point in your mind, bathed in fantasy

A place hard to reach, even splayed on cold Mexican tile, pretending your hand was his

Even, swimming underwater, until your lungs burned to surface

It was as if, once you grow up, the way back becomes harder

Like a secret language, only known to children, daunting you with reminder

The tree house of your neighbor, as you take the prescribed walk, your cardiologist insisted upon

The first rain lillies urging through Texan soil against all odds, their impossible fragility, an exquisite reprieve from cracked earth

Have you gone so far child? As to forget the combination? 

Here, where verbena and lemon grass, pummel air with magic 

Here, where you didn’t need anything, but the cupping of your hands, wonderment running through water, like you were born again and again, empied of harm 

Full of the vigor, of not knowing, the beaten path, to adulthood

Standard
fiction, life, prosetry

After The Devil

17982849._SX540_.jpg

After The Devil

she chose a hermaphrodite

it was quite by accident he did not advertise on his dirty t-shirt

or the filth beneath his bittern nails

something about the sad premature crease

of his grief and a slowness when they sat

drinking in silence listening to Nick Cave, fingers entwined

an ugly cupid with smooth hairless face and small hands

he had more passion in his molten brand of madness

drew her out of herself like a needle filled with blood

why shouldn’t she feel again? she was only

half used up

the finger prints of her humiliation could not

come off in his porcelain bath but there was some comfort

crushed underneath a new lover

her heart after all was deformed

mistake and gore of nature in her grandeur

how unhinged people can hold each other up

understanding the slur of repulsion

he took a photo of her before she knew

her elongated labia was showing

his pot belly and marshy dark nipples

they were horrified to see in reproduction

the honesty of their cavort via camera

disgusting really

to be so young and so

imperfect

and such a relief at the same time 

his wrinkled penis was less than an inch and she

had the smear of Electra urging her entreaty

when he held her down and reenacted

the snuff films of Dario Argento

squeezing almost tight enough to come

she saw a momentary quenching of anguish

like a reverse motion water fall

his urine landing on her flattened breasts

hanging over her rib cage in thin abandon

open your legs he said and show me your filth and scars

and though she had read Simone de Beauvoir

and Luce Irigaray

she found herself widening them

into a vile parody of former shyness

go on then she said

eat me out even though I disgust you

because he was filled with mocking self-hate

his little prick useless for much else aside frotage

he gave the best head she ever had

bar none

maybe it felt that way

because they had twisted and turned

until their skulls lay beside them

watching two ugly creatures

chew on their mutual sorrow

 

 

 

 

(thank you all at Hijacked Amygdala)

Standard