You are going to marry Death
Begrudgingly, he will seduce you
He has been waiting for you
To slip the sythe around your neck
As he tongues the oozing veins
You beg for him
While he tempts you to
The brink of insanity
Staring at you with the
Unwavering hollows trademarked
by him
Death commences the ceremony
By teething your soul
Which escapes your body
And you pray to the martyr
To save you from this evil
But Death is tantalizing
Soon you are indebted
To him too
She’d been in her room for a week.
Locked herself in the confines
Escaping from humanity
No intruders were allowed in,
Not that they would want to be with her
She remained bathed in dark
With no resources;
No food,
Only water
Yes, she guzzled water.
Her urine became clear
Like the soft chamomile tea
She used to entrance her into fairy tales
The curtains smelled of nicotine
From the wafts of cigarette smoke
Loitering her chapped lips
Her feathery hair was no longer luminous,
Strands broke in her hands
He discovered her bathed in
His huge polyester sweater
She was coddled like an infant,
Eyes glued with infinite sleep
Gazing at her pasty tendrils
The uneven halo above her head
He grasped her fingers
Noticing the prominent bones
And recalling how chubby
They had been in the past
But now her ring was looped with yarn,
Forcing the ill-fitting piece to mend her
He wept, blubbered, snotted
Onto her chest
Wiping his face with her…
With his sweater
The fabric seradding his nostrils
Scavenging under her bed
He recovered her final meal,
Along with several other
Unopened food items
Swathing her taste buds with chocolate,
He swears he heard her creaky grin
Food was her favourite.
Fuck me on the linoleum-tiled floor
I want my body to birth gooseflesh
As I shiver naked on the Antarctic ground
Your shadow hovering over me
Watching me squirm in my unsettled state
Although there is still a burst of want
Aching in my nerves
I stalk your palm before it torpedos into my cheekbone
It must have imprinted me with rhubarb by its sting
I want you to melt my chilling flesh
By smothering my skin in yours
Iron the bumps into smooth
I want you to hurt me
Polish your muscles with my bruises
Put me in that miserable place
Where the pain is heating my soul
Waltz away from me, pillaged
Crying puddles on to the crevices
Focus your eyes and see the scars registering on their faces
Freshly opened, never healed
On the forearms of the abused, elderly, spittle-infested children
These children who bear the faces of your men,
Your lover,
Your bed-ridden grandmother
Aching to return to your sorrow crested womb
Which guilts them into silence
Laboring with the hope of tomorrow
These children who cannot work, cannot learn, cannot function
Because of your rules and superficial customs
That is thrust upon them and suffocates them into your model
Shutting the door and forbidding the differing of the structure…
They die for you
They suffer with their wounds layered on acidic betrayal
And their minds devouring their soul
But they try,
With every possible molecule of gumption they find
Scrounging for it when scattered on the floor
But time always finds the innocent
Always stealing the seconds until their resting hour
Of when your children die
And they realize they have made no accomplishment;
No name,
No satisfaction with living their heinous lives
Surrounded by obsessiveness of you
You and you avidity to murder your children
And slaughter their innocence
For the majority of my life I feel like I’ve been walking a tight rope. In an auditorium where the bleachers are filled with thousands of me, yelling my condolences. Or screeching their hope for my demise. Two sides hoping for me to fall either which way. One side for hope, and happiness. Idealism they say. And the other for my misery to seep fully to my body, and kill the living inside of me. The realistic side that knows I want to die. And while walking this tight rope each side pitches feathers or rocks at me, eager for me to fall their way. Because each only wants the best for me. Up in the air, with this thin twine underneath my feet, I am shocked to realize I am too weak to fall either way. I barely skid across the axis of life, not living and not dying. But just existing. Every emotion I have ever came across is an extreme, an injection of that emotion into my system. And by seeing the rest of me, in dots on the ground, I know that were I go they will go. But when the epiphany catches up to me, shallow-breathed and confused, I choose not to fall either way. But in the end I decided to hang. Where I will forever be at my equilibrium of contentment and despair, and all of the thousands of me are relieved to see the swaying trophy in the middle of the auditorium.
The stench of pizza is stuck within my hair
Like grease it boils on top of my surface
We wait without knowing
There is no certainty
Of what will become
Miscarried words guided,
By misunderstood messengers
Prickling with gaumless nature
And their needles whispering
Injecting spittle within my veins
These syllables metamorphosize
To the headstrong embryos
With the eggshells that clutter
Beneath your toenails
And blossom into the grandstanding
Robots that are your
Grown up babies
Everyday I see an array of souls
Many malcontent and lugubrious
Some confused, conflicted
Lamenting their crimes
Lacing sugar over their evil
Begging, pleading
They have slaughtered my will
Many pray
To the god that has ordered
Me to avenge him
I get to notice
Their changing expressions
From blistering calm
To giddy, realization
Of deathly particles
Out to shock them
Often they muster a tear (or several)
Occasionally they explode a blood vessel
They urge me to kill them
They have death on the tips of their tongues
I am their guardian
To the electrical, pulsing light
But my candid person returns
Reminding that execution
Is still murder,
And not acceptable either
My conscience steers
Back to the creaky wood… I settle
I strap my crown
While shivering with the current
I am beating God at his own game
Life
If you asked me to put a bullet in my brain
I would
But not for my love of you
To see the expression on your fading face
When you realize I will be gone forever
And so will you
Her innocence is pried from her
As he rips through her lining
Like a hot, serrated knife
Being forced into her woman-hood
Her eyes are forced up
But her vision cannot be controlled
As she edits her reality
The rough carpet
Of the seven seater van
Grates her bare back
And peels her childhood
By the threads of time
The cold hands sculpt
Everywhere that is meant for the special
Her pure body is bruised like sugar
On a sweltering evening
The cross dangeling from her
Slivery neck, is broken
And stomped into the ground
He makes her recite her prayers
As God cannot save her now
He laughs as the salty liquid
Escapes
From her lashes
And he laps them away
Stroking her hair tenderly
But she still remains dry inside
And when he is satisfied
She is plopped on to the gravel
The van flours to Neverland,
A place that she can not visit,
When she is forever shattered
But there is no sentence
On his back
I am not the tortured artist
That I claim to be
I yearn for the words
To rush through my veins
And for creativity to
Encompass me
But I only sit
Puzzling words
Too sempiternal
For my comprehension
My wanderlust days
Will never diminish
Because I am eager
For the shimmering dust
To impawn itself to my
Crusty lips
My stories are too realistic,
They critique
No sentimentality,
They scoff
Lacking idealist persona
Croquette with a homeless
Might be more appealing
Misogyny, they predict
Ah, I compose,
Tweaking my brain,
But poetry
It is
