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The Motherland May 2014
I feel her there sometimes
Sometimes silent, sometimes not

When she is silent the emptiness is
Oppressive
And makes my skull feel heavy and weak
And my thoughts clouded with
The groping fingers of all that ask,
"Are you okay?"

When she screams, I am filled
To the brim with panic and chaos
That spews from her maw in
Tangled, writhing masses

The sound is almost angelic.
Is she heavenly?

I have never seen her but I know what she looks like.
It is a knowing feeling, or an overexcited imagination?
Long, tangled black hair,
Something is caught in the snarls and curls.
A pale face whiter than bone,
Thin and fragile like china.

Hands clawed and twisted,
Feet swollen and scarred.
A white dress long in tatters slipping off the bony shoulder

please take me back,
take me home

I plead but there are no words
Comprehensible to my human
(However extraordinarily mutated)
Brain
That leave her cracked lips.
The Motherland May 2014
A moon beam glides along the soft covers of my skin.
Let the moon make me mad, I thought,
For there is no fear in what is known.
I beckon the sermons of wild men
To settle in among the cracks of my skull.
Spirals and stars may rest on my hands
For a mind barren and lonely
Holds not a life worth living.

Let darkness flood my life and dampen empty
Hopes with beauty and love.
I shall not stray from what is destined for me,
For I will play neither God nor Satan in this farce
Of innocent freedom and dizzying thought.

I do not fear madness, I fear the emptiness
Of logic and rationality.
For how can there be joy in knowing
How it'll end?
Found this on a scrap of paper written in the middle of the night a few months ago when the moon was shining right on my bed as a bright strip and I flung open the curtains and blinds and window to see it
The Motherland May 2014
1942, and bombs are falling, falling
your body is limp already
but warm like bread we baked
they always said you'd grow to be taller than your sisters
but here you lie and you will always be the smallest

I never thought I would see so much of your blood
this is not human and this is not what is supposed to happen
there are little holes in your torso that were not there before

and still the bombs are falling, falling
and still mothers and fathers and children
and the very very lonely
are screaming, screaming

and I am crying, crying
sobs torn with my agony
from my bleeding throat
as you lie limp on my lap
and there is nothing left of you
and scarcely anything left of me

*have you not done enough?
this is what you have done and yet you want MORE
but this is all you can do is this not enough for you
please STOP you have done EVERYTHING to me
and yet your bombs are falling and the significance
of this little boy in my arms is nothing
but how can the destruction continue
when everything is already over?
Watched a war film and all the bad thoughts came even more
The Motherland May 2014
I entered a church
Or perhaps it was a cathedral?
But it does not really matter,
Because its all the same to me.

I am not particularly religious,
But I believe in a God, and a Devil,
And Souls.

I like the stories,
And the smell of church candles and incense and hope and guilt mixed together
With the tantalising intoxicating feeling
Of having all your sins spilling out of your throat and every
Single part of you.

All is seen.

So looking at saints and windows and benches
And the colours that filter through and leap and dance
I sobbed.

Because I am scared
And because I have sinned
And because every moment I am thinking
Do I want what I have been given
Or am I ready to leave everything behind

In the search for divinity.
The Motherland May 2014
I think I would like to make a home of your body
Like the dens I used to make with my siblings,
Before I started saying "no thanks".

To take a doctor's scalpel,
Clean and new and never used
And so very, very sharp
And to rest it in the hollow just where the breastbone ends.

Then to push it in along your soft smooth shiny skin
So unlike the mottled scarring that covers mine.

Down, down, down
To where you wear the waistband of your jeans.
A horizontal swipe at the top,
At the bottom,
Like making the fold of a window in a paper house.
Shh, is anyone home?

Lifting the heavy, wet flesh,
Your rib cage is so very white
And so very perfect
Like special cutlery for special occasions-
Births and weddings and funerals.

They hide your lungs,
Bloodshot and tired of the
Eternal
Moving and moving and moving on and on and on

Your stomach, soft
And vulnerable in its hideousness
Yet it hides the despicable necessity
Of human life.

And your heart,
Plump and fresh and young,
It is restless and strains
But for what when all that lies outside
Is incomprehensible and unnerving and unwelcoming.

So I will leave it all behind
And with damp heavy fatigue crawl
Into your torso like the unborn child
We have all been and will be again.

And your ribs will cradle me like a birdcage
That has grown so sick of the world,
And your organs will cushion and comfort me
When I feel that I do not want to live.

And blood will cover everything
Just as I have always wanted.
Flooding my eyes and nose and mouth and ears
And bathing me in the warmth, the constant gentle pounding,
That would make me feel alive.
The Motherland May 2014
When I am touching the soil or the floor or the mattress of my bed,
I am connected and solid on the ground -
I am part of something bigger.
Everything rolls and pulses and convulses and seizes underneath me
And nothing is still, but alive and rippling like water.
I am bound to the Earth,
And that makes me better
Than when I am afloat.

At those times,
I feel nothing but
Aching longing and a keening desire
To feel close to something else, be it breathing or beating
And the fact that I am really very alone
And rather more independent than I want to be
And that I can survive by myself
Makes me quite, quite scared.

— The End —