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Kendra 4d
The destruction is foreign.
The wailing.
                                                                                                   The growling.
                                                                   The hunger claws at my insides,
Seedlings sprout from the soil
as the world swells with my breath,
                                                                    and my organs begin to deflate.
yet none of my cries
will save the oak.
                                                                                          The last of my fruit
                                                                               tumbled down my throat
                                                                                          before burning up.
Alkaline rivers.
salty rivulets.
Dead water.
                                                                                      This ocean is endless.
                                                            The tides change between my teeth,
It pours from my eyes,
                                                                         and it spills from my mouth.
colourless agony.
Blood on the black earth
                                                                                    The taste of red metal,
                                                                                                 a second flood.
where the void was created,
                                                                               The void cannot be filled.
The grove brutally butchered
                                                                               My hand bitten clean off,
by a greedy axe
and a grand appetite.
My words still create;
                                                                                                         my mouth
                                                                                                          the blade.
life still leaves my lips.
What my tongue provides,
it can withhold,
                                                                                             I give it my flesh,
and so you will
                                                                                     tear tissue from bone.
                                                                                                Oh, the hunger.
On the right is Demeter's pov, while the left is Erysichthon's.
***** stheno.
Bossy stheno.
Too loud stheno.
Confrontational stheno.
No wonder she can’t hold down a relationship stheno.
Hormonal stheno.
Did you know Medusa had a sister—stheno?

Forgot her name immediately after writing this poem.


Thought her name was spelled stethno.
Sunset Meadows Feb 2023
I am from water, from fire,
      from earth and air,
            the spirit to complete.
I am from the busy movement of city
      from the busstling to and fro.
I am from historic land,
      from where many jumped to find gold,
            to find a better life.
I am from the prison of Him,
      from where the truama begins,
            perfect from all around.
I am from nights of games,
      from spondgebob monoply
            from Life.
I am from the seeds of the earth,
      from where the magick starts.
I am from Odin, from Apollo,
      the strong Yggdrasil to protect.
I am from the occult of practice,
      from the forests and seas.
I am from long walks with Odin,
      from his warm embrace,
            from playing fetch.
I am from the theatre,
      from Carlos, from tech.
I am from here.
fray narte May 2021
i will hold a gun to my throat myself,
yet somehow,
it is less violent
than the casual words of a god.

mad girls don't cry wolf;
they die. they disappear,
like cobwebs in a darkened corner.
in the shadows, watch me dangle
with a slip knot of fuchsias.

in the shadows,
watch me dig this body up,
until there is a layer of skin
and black lips and lithium quartz
and clichéd promises
you haven't touched.
after all, archaeology is
just an excuse
to look straight at my remains.

in the shadows,
let my skin cave in;
i will take everything down —
every misery, every deception,
every corruption, and every light.
i will ***** out the ******* sun
if it kills me,
leaves me cold as bygone walls.

yet somehow,
it is less violent

than to be loved by a god, until he doesn't.
to be loved by a god, but it isn't.

to be loved by a god: a euphemism, at best

to be loved by a god
is the curse.
Angie Mediero May 2021
Giant golden orb, primed,
the Scorpions tail delivers her blow
And I, in futile preparedness,
crushed between her barb and the centaurs insecure rage.
Unabashed love the second casualty
as Mars raised his sword 3 times and struck with Aries force,
a tsunami into gentle waters.
Later the fish, the fish in the whirlpool,
he chewed mercilessly,
he was not hungry for flesh but for innocence
and he feasted to corruption.
And I, with bitter hopefulness,
purged the fish through one way inverse fury.
Adrift at sea, the second god of war,
carried to lucent quartz shores,
captured the tsunami for his salvation, dragging her to the desert.
And I, all watery doggedness, laboured for her a thorny oasis
from which the second god of war was banished.
Whence fair daughter of Gaia in refined tenderness,
delivered the gift between life and language,
Blushing song of refuge.
Angie Mediero May 2021
My heart is a broken metronome
A gift by saboteur
Wayward in her rhythm
though birthing Gods of Beauty
Like the Tree of Myrrh

My heart is a broken metronome
Reckless in her proffer
Too hasty in her measure
Yet for those adroit to dive her depth
A sunken Royal Coffer
Inspired by my arrythmia and theories of Beethovens broken metronome
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