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Nov 2018 · 285
Alter
Simone Zona Nov 2018
i come to you half mad with desire
my *** turned to sacrifice;
starved, like an Unwatered flower,
A wretched *****,
A sacred *******,
A temple of worship,

Do you remember How you created me?
In A sort of Rebirth, out of the carcass I once was
Aching to be consumed
All my flesh and bones and sinews,
Stripped away.
Now, just the soft dew of our skin,
The clear thickened air dressed in fire
Smoked by the scents of sage and salt
evoking numberless poems

For me to swim through your body
back and forth in a sacred liturgy
Bloodied and purified I am Laid bare before you now
amidst The white sheets of  the alter
A purity of sin almost worthy of  worship,
almost crying out the holiness of lust before the gods.
And Our velvet kiss turning to a midnight confession
all of our vices and virtues
Are as blood and as sky.
Based off the concept of physical love and religious love as being two manifestations of the same impulse.
Nov 2018 · 184
Eris
Simone Zona Nov 2018
When lilies of pain bloomed from soil saturated in
blood
and lust
Mother Gaea gave birth to her most wretched daughter
A Stifled and stillborn and butchered daughter
A sacrificial lamb, of a daughter
An empty and anguished and defiled daughter

An ache
who was born from the corpses
left clinging together after the dust has settled.

An Ache
who’s cries were the imminent whistle of a descending bomb.

An Ache
who’s very breath was fulled with our most desperate whispers and prayers.

We set Gaea ablaze,
Left her singed and seared and amputated,
nothing but the sharp-edged fragments of what was,
burning away at memories of the battles that lingered still on her tongue.
A forest fire consuming and destroying itself, yet continually growing,
Growing enough to
burn
and burn
and burn
And burn
but not quite ****,
Only to leave her daughter alive.
A daughter left to roam  the blistered cadaver of her mother,
An Ache, still alive,
Alive and sickly and sweet
Full of beating blood and sticky wet breath.
Nov 2017 · 1.3k
Fog
Simone Zona Nov 2017
Fog
She sits in stoop, low over the sodden earth
Pressing herself  to leave an impression in the muck
some sort of public confession,

That she actually exists.
Swallowing whole all things dead and dying, but
Her own unsubstantiated concept of
Living, defying her purpose
In insipid contradictions

To her needless desperation to grow.
To prove her own mass substantial
Absorbing into herself all things that seem too real,
That threaten her absoluteness
That threaten to have existed before her
Oct 2017 · 368
The tramp
Simone Zona Oct 2017
Sad and sunken, sloppy
Reclining in their paperback seats
Heads lolling forward like they are made of
The rags they are clothed in.

Rags they sleep with. Clutched like a child's
Blankie to hold them down on the
Concrete bed made from their cold and hard
Voice,
But soft words, that built their bones
And concaved skulls, empty but

Open like a bowl to be filled,
Like their stomachs will remain unfilled,
Like their stomachs
Decaying,
Un-used and un-taught.

Soft, sloping, shoulders,
Slick but slump tongue,
Too heavy at the base of their throats
To speak and sigh,
They sway in their hollow frames
And sink lower in the cold.
Oct 2017 · 698
Funeral
Simone Zona Oct 2017
They carry the body out at 5.37 p.m on a Sunday.

Cloaked under shadows of cloth, in the blackness of
Death.

We lay dead-empty as we watched.

They hovered with bleached masks and lay hands, cold,
On the still colder flesh, They pressed flesh on flesh,
Imagined life in hallowed cheeks,
They tried to bring more out of 63 kg of
Flesh and bone, spoke to break the seal of death  
With remembrance

The body rotted below the cloth
The body grew stiffer, colder
And nothing more
Inspired by writings of Hughes
Sep 2016 · 529
Identity
Simone Zona Sep 2016
My name is signed between my skin
In ink for words we say but don't take in
They write a new name on every whim
And my blue ink skin it blends right in

We break out of our cages in succession of escape
Say words lacking meaning but then we mean them in the end
They shove us into paper boxes and leave ***** agape,
Yet with possibilities of freedom we lay eyes shut and pretend.

A box and a pen in collision of our thoughts
Until we become one with the blue ink they sought

-SZ

— The End —