#spines
tired of hearing talk of
butterflies are tired
of their wings being the
object of one’s affection
and we are one to
talk about the skin
that dress souls like gar-
ments that we peel off
at the end of a long day
we are raw and naked
and who to see us if not
just curtains & hollow
bathtubs filled
with aching spines that
carry heavy souls and
what’s the point if nobody
asks to look inside anyway?
tired of talk of skin and form
there is so much more to see
just ask about
metamorphosis
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 3:13 PM UTC
their spines are straight -
two different trees in two different woods.
people like them are not meant
to come face to face.
is this the first time the distance between them is silent?
emptied of political din, hoarse
shouts of protest in market squares,
flags unfurled not in love for a country
but in hate for the other.
are enemies still enemies when they are of the same space?
the two girls recognize
that their hair curls in the same way.
they don't reach out to touch
but a curiosity forms a thread between them.
a thread. their fingers tingle, flutter
spooling and unspooling
this new connection, this new thread.
their eyes swing like pendulums.
how new, how strange to breathe
in air that is clean of artificial hate.
they are curious, spooling and unspooling.
what will happen to this thread?
for threads are too easy to break.
and each knows the power of governments,
their ability to dangle them
then break
and break and break.
the two girls wonder. the two girls stare.
they look. they look and look.
but their spines are straight -
two different trees in two different woods.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Quietly and alone,
a flower blushes
in the cactus garden.
Viciously and slow,
the flower is pricked
by the venomous spines.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
Perhaps I am a cactus.
Perhaps,
there are needles
protruding
from my skin
to prove how soft
i really am.
A saguaro,
only hollow
by the birds
who make nests
in my chest.
Perhaps,
I will flower
once the rainy season is over.
I will drink deep of this muddy sorrow
and my skin will swell
warm
and green
and well nourished
by the sky.
Perhaps,
it will be
the most beautiful
blossom anyone has
ever seen
and people will travel
miles
just to
admire.
Perhaps,
they will wonder
how my flower
came from such a
spiny
thing
And Perhaps
I will tell them.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
The acrid smell of darkness
"Permeates me"
I am surrounded by the skies
Of hell fire,
Brimstone,
Sulphuric,
Odours
Breathed as if air
Burning with each inhale,
This is a place of eternal penance
Why do I sit on a thrown of spines
Those around grovel
Hungry as if to taste my milk,
I look down, hot coals are under foot
My thrown room blacker than sin,
I am jested towards the window,
Torture,
Screams,
Souls
Bound to instruments, some scream in
Redemption, why'll others ask for more,
Broken, crazy lost souls that once
Screamed as the souls now bound to
"Smouldering coals"
I glance as heavy doors open,
Skin,
Bone,
Muscles
Entwined with black stitch
No words permitted,
As stich tightly woven
Upon blooded lips
I felt enticed at her vulgerness
She approached as if to touch my Hand, I
Repelled,
Declined,
Opposed
Her advances, I cut in to her muscle
she moaned as if ecstasy,
As black droplets burnt upon the floor
"She again ushered towards my hand"
I let her grip as she cut the
Stitches
From her bleeding lips,
"I smelt her breath"
A thousand souls decaying within her,
Breath
Exhaled,
Putrid,
Odour that was irresistible,
Lips meet, flesh burnt and the
Mists of what was clarity was ushered away,
My reaper of souls beauty of the underworld
I tasted with that kiss corruption, hatred
"He who shall never be named"
"At his tricks once again"
"I sit o my throne of spines"
My horns ignite once more
The light that shined briefly now
Extinguished,
Smothered,
Obsolete
Feelings from a place one stood upon,
"I am that which others need to fear"
As all will pay for this
"Moment of Clarity"
As I engulf souls, redemption
Is for above, below there is just hatred and misery
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
It’s been a long time
since the book in my hands
had a cracked spine.
And it’s been a long time,
since my hands traveled
the distance along yours.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC