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Pearson Bolt Dec 2016
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.

i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining The Difference
Between Hell
and Home
:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."

an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.

a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.

Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
‪"The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the 'outlaw,' the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order."‬
‪- Michel Foucault ‬
Fianna Beth Jul 2016
grin penetrating my mind and your touch - your grab - sewn into my side
sinking as a summer without fin(n)s drowning in your baby blues,
boy
and fooling myself into early christmas hollyboughs? go-lightly on me, oh please!
A ****** bisou beneath mistletoe
with curled toes and auroral, idolising eyes
fantasising eyes
overall, decriminalising eyes
Annie excuse at (H)all to see you and
re
-vive (mes soins, votre sécurité)
-kindle (the ignition to my inspiration)
-pair (poles apart)
a pair in the most offensive of ways
my only vice is cleansing yours
but your sins or psyche?
am i wounded or warming?
my truly fatal frailty
Women Who Love Too Much
Book by Robin Norwood
Fianna Beth Oct 2015
Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes

Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands

To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.

Fragile.

But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces

Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,

But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.

Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.

We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip

Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed

Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.

And revolt we will.
Fianna Beth Aug 2015
date a poet
she’ll immortalise you with her words
and she’ll see you at 3am in the last embers of a fire
she’ll hear your name in a breeze
she’ll feel you when the sun kisses her skin
date a poet
and feel yourself weakening upon the hand-scribbled notes
carefully concealed between the pages of her favourite, dog-eared      book
and inimitable mix CDs
oh, you’d never guess how long she spent composing them
date a poet
for no moment will be dull
whether it’s crocheting or flower-arranging
or archery, wind-surfing or belly-dancing
there will always be a new skill for her to learn
more cultures to unearth and be utterly captivated by
and you will soon find yourself just as enraptured by her
as she is by the world
date a poet
you won’t truly understand love until you’ve heard it personified as   a wildfire, a loaded magnum and a silk noose
date a poet
because who doesn’t want to be a poem?
Fianna Beth Jan 2015
Do you still recall my touch?
How I played with your dainty fingers and
traced murals of dreams on your palm?
I wonder how it feels now,
like venom running through your veins.
I am the poison that your parents used warn you about as a child-
pure, unadulterated blight in alluring hourglass bottles.
Magnetic spectrums of colour,
mimicking spilled petrol,
enrapturing naive, starry-eyed souls
oblivious to the threat I pose.
The realisation; too late.
I destroy you,
leaving you feeling the rush of my affection
but innocently unaware I have forsaken you.
Neglected.
And, oh, how you’re addicted.
The destructive euphoria with which I intoxicate you,
mesmerised by the dilated eye of the magnified dust devil.
Cursed by my breath-taking, malevolent ‘love’
Fianna Beth Jan 2015
I'm so relieved you love yourself.
It helped me feel like it was justified
That I didn't love you.
Fianna Beth Mar 2015
Recently I heard that in Spain they changed the word ‘marriage’
From permanent tense to temporary
That worries me
But everybody’s so rapidly changing
And love couldn’t possibly stay ‘unconditional’
You shouldn’t love out of fear
Maybe nobody is ‘meant to be’
No ‘soulmates’
Nor ‘fate’
Not that I ever believed in those fairy-tale yarns
But I perhaps enjoy the idea
Of somebody forever finding me somewhat
Tolerable
But now we’re accepting
That everything is terrifyingly perishable
And that is a very scary thought,
Emphasising, when you think about it
A reminder
That
Every
Living
Creature
On Earth
Dies
A   l   o   n    e
Fianna Beth Mar 2015
I remember our first kiss and how you said you had been wanting to do that for so long and
I wondered if you thought the same thing when you left me
Fianna Beth Mar 2015
My rusty chains yelp and squawk
Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous
So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying
Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs
Bound to this
Bastille of a rotting exterior
Eventually decrepit, at first, from use
Now merely deteriorating as of neglect

Once-stimulating summers fade
Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings
Dejected and funereal
Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled
The lengths of my now cadaverous frame—
Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated
Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes
And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate

I yearn
For a sudden rekindling
Reminiscing
About memories only I can keep alive
For the exploiters I was dependent on,
Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed
Yet I still stoically anticipate their return

I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons
Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains
Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low
My faith, my only zeal
written while bedridden with mononucleosis.

first person narrative of an old swingset whose owners have all grown up and moved out, leaving him to rust in the garden and allowing the wildlife to engulf him.

yeah I don't know either.
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