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belladonna it seems that you're deadly
such a beautiful name for a deadly plant
belladonna erase my pitiful existence
take my pain away
let me wither away
I cannot stand this hell any longer
take me away
belladonna
atropa
night shade
death
will edit later on
Lina Sep 2016
She was my own Atropos.
Eyes dark like belladonna's berry.
Her breath gave me life,
Her shears were slowly closing.

I waited every night for Atropa Belladonna,
But flowers only bloom by day.
I knew that she could never be
Mine only...my Deadly Nightshade.

So I let her go. By day, she is another's.
But only 'til the midnight hour...
When I am hers and she is mine.
And the night is forever ours.
Inspired by the Deadly Nightshade, one of my favorite flowers, and an almost lover.
Thomas W Case Mar 2021
Everyday that dawns,
you slip away a little more.
The distant stare,
the apathetic eyes.
Your love is as dead
as the roses in
the trash.
Your heart is an
abyss that I'm
lost in forever.
Belladonna drew me in.
The poison kept me there.
Alex P Gara Apr 2012
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Amelia Browder Jul 2013
Lustful eyes
Taking you all in
Blow you out my pipe
Smoke encircling my nose
Then breathing you in again
Your so addicting
My little taste of heaven
My drug
Hands roaming
My eyes see stars
Songs filled the room
With new melodies
Your taste on my tongue
Like candy to a child
Never enough
The innocence and vulnerability
I shouldn't but I will
Your dangerous
But I'm daring
Your poison
Is no sickness
Entrancing
Hypnotic
Your my drug
My Belladonna
Belladonna is a poisonous plant that is often used in drugs. It is quite addicting.
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et *** illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.’

                For Ezra Pound
                il miglior fabbro


I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony *******? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
            Frisch weht der Wind
            Der Heimat zu
            Mein Irisch Kind,
            Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to ***** ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

‘What is that noise?
                          The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
                    Nothing again nothing.
                                                    ‘Do
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’

    I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
                                                     But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
                             The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
hurry up please its time
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
hurry up please its time
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
hurry up please its time
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
hurry up please its time
hurry up please its time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female *******, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

      The river sweats
      Oil and tar
      The barges drift
      With the turning tide
      Red sails
      Wide
      To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
      The barges wash
      Drifting logs
      Down Greenwich reach
      Past the Isle of Dogs.
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

      Elizabeth and Leicester
      Beating oars
      The stern was formed
      A gilded shell
      Red and gold
      The brisk swell
      Rippled both shores
      Southwest wind
      Carried down stream
      The peal of bells
      White towers
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’
‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start’.
I made no comment. What should I resent?’
‘On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of ***** hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.’
              la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                                A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                               Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock wi
jeffrey robin Oct 2013
On the surface
I look like an American

But

I've always felt
I've always known

That deep down inside

I am Italian!

••

For the sake of continuity

I'll still write as Jeffrey Robin

But I am now

SIGNIOR  GIOVANNI FRANCESCO BELLADONNA DE LA BAD *** DUDE!

(Oh yeah

I'm Italian Mafiosa!)

••

I feel liberated!

PURE

••

Oh yeah.

There's one more thing

You know how I'm always writing these highly sensitive intelligent poems?

Well

I've looked deep down inside myself and realized that this isn't me!

Deep down inside

I AM AN IDIOT!

A FOOL!

••

Out of the closet!

At last!

Free!

••

This is the first poem I've  written reflecting my newer
Truer

Status!

••
••

Let us romp together joyously

To the DEATH CAMPS.

Beyond the Hills!
Feeling Real Sep 2015
The poisonous woman aches
Her sinuous steps accented by her platform
Shoes higher than your pay grade
Mouth never smiling, even through her laughter

She's the demonized walker
The preferred companion and smoothest talker

If you catch her at night, the shadows swept into being
She'll wave you off without asking your offering
She'll take your cigarettes, your money, your heart
Crushing us beneath her is a pleasantry

She's the missing link
She's the entitled goddess we love to hate

This ***** knows what it is to be an object
But dear Belladonna refuses to bite
She's the purest sadist, the blue in her eyes
She's the sanguine sacrifice, ready die
insp by the book belladonna but i love the idea of great people hating themselves so look where it's brought me
Will Snelling Nov 2013
Seep in through the back door,
Soak in the blinding opulence,
Resist the urge to start too fast.
Pull a wire and the room is swallowed in ink.

Limbs like rags dance,
And my skin turns scarlet again.
Let his eyes become mine,
Unclouded by lingering humanity.

Screeching lights filter through the curtain,
Just slide with invisible motion,
Feel the shimmering of a red potion,
The dance judders to its end.

I'm on my own again
It all drips off in the rain,
It all drips off in the rain.

Feel the white light pierce the eyes,
Black, tangled locks of hair hang over my eye,
Used to be so elegant and delicate.
Clumps are hardened in blood.

That sound's so mellifluous,
That draining siren, at the back of the woods,
Distorted by the black trees,
Only to loom, unseeing.

It's such a blinding rush,
To feel the brambles and the sweet
Release of pure, pungent adrenaline.
Blood weeps down my leg
Like the black juice of Deadly Nightshade.
rodeo clown Oct 2017
the pendulum swings
t-twice

belladonna berries by mouth
angel's orders

limbs stretched out
backwards embrace to
earth

pupils expand like
spilled anti-milk

last minutes
final comfort of
letting go

my heart beats now
for every cheek blushed
please
remember me
fearless
nightshade belly full
smashing the skull
to fine white dust

chest *****
knocking on breastbone
like gold on mohagony
once
twice

when the door opens
i will fall, in love

fall, in love
i don't write for just anyone anymore
Christina Murphy Jul 2014
there is no place for me to hide,
if i were to tuck myself inside
the marrow deep within your bones,
you'd break each one to get to me.
and **** it dry, the whole supply.
you'd exhaust your every resource
in my pursuit.

i have become your madman shackled,
the prey your hungry eyes have tackled.
you are a flower ever blooming,
looming, growing towards me.
wide-eyed on the chase,
i am the most alluring poison
you did ever taste.

for me, your stomach's aching,
and hands are coarsely shaking
the demons you are waking
are taking every toll on me.
til i am gone, and you are weak
you'll seek my nectar, ever sweet.
no matter what the price will be.
Penelope Cruz
Used to muse
On the use
Of oversized microwave ovens
In the covens
Of Barcelona.

Give them their due
They know how to imbue
Broomsticks with fresh belladonna!
Third Eye Candy Dec 2012
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****.
toe nails clipped from yeti  
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat

and a brick banana.

blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****.
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask

while hailing a black cab.

tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.

your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho

your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll

your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone

your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.

your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
A re-posting of a deleted work. please enjoy.
O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
Nitika Small Oct 2015
She
You should know
You're just a temporary fix
She's a ****
An obscured partial eclipse
She runs and hides
Behind a mask of addictive scripts
She's the game
You just feel good against her melanin

You should know
She's incoherently captivating
She's a naked lady
Amaryllis Belladonna
Poisonous and pink
She'll hit a switch you can't describe
Concurrently splitting your spine
Yet enhancing the fruits of your mind

She's a ****
And you're just a temporary fix
Where she lives
Love does not exist
Torin May 2016
She is a gypsy queen
My queen
Who sees sadness in my eyes
And falls in love
She is on the road
And in the stars
Hanging over me as clouds
Shining over me as suns
She is a gypsy queen
Belladonna
A femme fatale fatally stricken
And falling further
She lives by her own rules
And in her dreams
Where our bodies intertwine
And in our hearts

We both know
We know it well
Nothing last forever
Not even pain

I wondered if she could love
But I know she does
Even love that is ending
Never dies
She fell in love
With the sadness in my eyes
And broke her own rules
To see me smile
Eleete j Muir Jan 2012
A grimoire of nuptials apporting
The implored cadaverous knight
Securing obsequious omens
Stirring the sleeping metals of
Chaste belladonna, glistening
Elf-locks entangled with Hellweed
Vowing until the golden bowl is broken
Clasping the devils paintbrush promising
Before the garrulous black mass
Leering upon Vulcans mirror
Cursing the covenant of faithfulness
With a moonstone band
Evoking a vixens wedding
Sealing with Adams holy ale
Their oath as the belfry rings
Resounding admist white sepulchre.


ELEETE J MUIR.
Janette Jan 2013
"You tempt in me…so much…
a sparrow...a lamb… a tenderness… and the captive heart… that beats against my palm…
the bonds…. of trust.. surrendered"


to the silver nepenthe of your voice,
stricken upon the thick red heart
I've pinned to a map,

See, it emits grace
beneath the molten glass,
strung through harp strings and stretched
as sutures ,the solemn musculature of ecstasy
bound in golden ropes and belladonna dreams,

Let the white darts fall
where they may

This silence belies the song
in my throat, hovering
like a silver bauble, your face
is dark, back-lit, harbouring
the terror of words that burn...

My heart
holds the cinder of secrets,
and little poison idols of hematite
and gooseflesh...

Our dream box collects its damp light
from the dark corners of our prison,
as you coax a banyan tree
from its arousal...

A totem filled with marzipan,
and trembling, but to split
its lip upon glass cages,
wrought with jade...

Hold the sparrow face-up,
let the furrow of its wings, tempt
the fates, as it sings to the same scythe
that chimes against the dead angles of the soul's crucified geography....
Sam Hain Oct 2014
To swim the slimy seas the ocean o’er
And gag upon the rank and rotten air
Filthy with sailor’s curse and foulest swear
In search of lost and dearly loved Lenore,
To open up the inner sanctum’s door
And call (in tongues unfit for holy prayer)
Clammy Cthulhu forth from out his lair,
Will be to me most pleasant evermore.
And like a count who shuns the light of day
And moves by candlelight in chilly gloom,
Or a black witch that wears a sacred bloom
Of belladonna on her breast alway,
I live where the scarecrow spies the blackbird’s lark:
I live within the cold and rainy dark.

O.O
Rapunzoll Feb 2016
tonight, something a little
stronger than poison
runs through my veins

it festers, intangible,
pretty like belladonna,
sweet like nightshade

it sways in the wind
of my lungs, it has it's
own tune you see.

i know it's a plague,
like him, we've all
been infected once.

tonight, it's angry,
venomous,
gardens of deep rose

and happiness returns
to being but a distant,
wavering sun.
© copyright
Rose Ruminations Aug 2014
She spits fire
Stands strong
Feet planted:
No mercy
Unyielding

She is belladonna
She is the femme fatale
She is unattainable
And she revels it that.

Solitude lends itself to sweet dreams and optimism
Without the threat of slowing down
Without the weight of children's bodies
Without the teeth and claws of responsibility
Sinking soul-shudderingly deep
Into her body

Or so she tells herself
When faced with her
Swarms of unhappy thoughts
Gnat-like they flutter
Around her head

But she will not let them in

Because that is vulnerability
That is admitting weakness
That is being human

And she will never admit her *hamartia
Alison Satine Sep 2013
it's not you
it's not you
i'm not sorry.
cotton candy kisses
valentine candies
forgive me not
poison chocolates
forget me not
this bloodlust is driving me crazy
maybe I'll be a ****** baby
velvet and blood
and creamy lace and pink guts
bitter coffee and venom laced lips
and hesitant sips
nightshade tea and pills of three
flirting with death
and stealing my breath
this murderlust is driving me mad
I'm intoxicated and I'm high
I'm in love and I'm bad
belladonna coffee in threes
mentholated cigarettes and
forgive me not
'cause I'm not
oh honey, it's all regrets
it's not me
it's not me
I'm not sorry.
Rapunzoll Jan 2016
we take long drags
of each others skin,
the addiction comes
in phases.
day 1: my lungs sigh, weary,
air does not satisfy,
day 2: we're chasing
lifelines, that are rusted
and in vain
day 5: bad habits are
hard to break, beg, at the
holy altar of our mistakes
day 8: hands desperate,
clammy, unfurl
like belladonna palms.
day 9: i hope your
vocal cords strain, that
the only word you can
bear to say is 'stay'.
day 11: last breaths
muffled in the
graveyard of a kiss.
day 17: darling, i'm
losing track of time
day 28: i'm finding it
a little bit hard to quit.
© copyright
L B Mar 2019
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”

Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically

She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance  
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--

back to that forbidden foot-slide

Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run


hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Lighting a cigarette from an old time matchbook while driving a standard shift takes some skills.  Betty was an 'effn ballerina at the wheel
Alex Smith Oct 2018
Sweet bitter tastes touch my tongue,
Turning knots of nothingness.
Regret, relief, repose, rewind-
Take a poison-
Ease my mind.
Calm me down now.
Soon, there will be no pain.
Little toxins leak tenderly
And I feel better.
These kind chemicals
Was over me
Like a wave of pure water-
Droplets fall from the skies:
My eyes.
Cries, and sighs.
Breathe a last breath,
We are all ok.
Take this vegetation,
Take life away.
A nightshade salad,
My perfect deadly nutrition.
Swallow down those berries,
Eat the flowers and leaves.
My favorite plant
Will appease
The emptiness inside of me.
Deadly nightshade-
Belladonna.
The purple beauty of
Dreams of death.
A metaphor using some of my favorite plants. The nightshade family is known to have very beautiful and very significant flowering plants. They are incredibly resilient as well and can grow almost anywhere. The only problem is that they also can be deadly. It's an interested and beautiful duality.
Vic Feb 2020
my stange addiction - Billie Eilish

No, Billie, I haven't done that dance since my wife died
There's a whole crowd of people out there who need to learn how to do the Scarn
Don't ask questions you don't wanna know
Learned my lesson way too long ago
To be talking to you, belladonna
Shoulda taken a break, not an oxford comma
Take what I want when I wanna
And I want ya
Bad, bad news
One of us is gonna lose
I'm the powder, you're the fuse
Just add some friction
You are my strange addiction
You are my strange addiction
My doctors can't explain
My symptoms or my pain
But you are my strange addiction
I'm really, really sorry
I think I was just relieved to see that Michael Scarn got his confidence back
Yeah, Michael, that movie is amazing
It's like, one of the best movies I've ever seen in my life
Deadly fever, please don't ever break
Be my reliever 'cause I don't self medicate
And it burns like a gin and I like it
Put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it
Hurts, but I know how to hide it, kinda like it
Bad, bad news
One of us is gonna lose
I'm the powder, you're the fuse
Just add some friction
You are my strange addiction
You are my strange addiction
My doctors can't explain
My symptoms or my pain
But you are my strange addiction
Bite my glass, set myself on fire
Can't you tell I'm crass?
Can't you tell I'm wired?
Tell me "Nothing lasts"
Like I don't know
You could kiss my as-king about my motto
You should enter it in festivals
Or carnivals
Thoughts?
Pretty good reaction
Pretty cool, right?
You are my strange addiction
You are my strange addiction
My doctors can't explain
My symptoms or my pain
But you are my strange addiction
Did you like it? Did you like that?
Um, which part?
A poem every day
14-2-20
Aurora Feb 2020
R.J Calzonetti


Screaming cross the skyscraper’s windbreaker tapering

Aether vapour- trailblazing ****-sapien wafers

Of machinations psychotropic doppelgängers

Aristotle throttling menagerie’s philosophically hypnotic obelisks

Mind-boggling astronomical chronological esophagus

Antioxidants phosphorus catastrophic mitochondria

Beyond anaconda onomatopoeia

Of hallucinogenic Armageddon biblical umbilical cords

Swarming northern lights of aurora borealis

The chalice a battleground of Evangelion belladonna

Metalica candelabra swallowing the monochrome Hanukkah

Of a cold winter’s eldritch disintegration photosynthesis

Of innocent infinity stretching wretched beckoning requiem

The words that fall upon my page, are really just a shallow grave

Of the dawn of nighttime in my eyes, calm upon the twilight sun

Wrong is done draped on the blood moon wraiths

Skyscraped fields dusk a hollow thud below the dunes

That thumps the consumption of our fate, fumes to glow in darkness loom

Left blind in light of day you cannot see, the little pieces silver sheen

For blinding light may fade to grey, and I will never have my way

Nightfalls on another daybreak, dawning darkness, sundown on another day

Twilight plays with sparkling haze, the sky a wildfire made ablaze in patchwork scarecrows

Who etch rainbows black as a heart of coal, sold flatlining railroads

Gold wraithlike halos of stained-glass cathedrals unreal in the fever-dream of human beings

Bleeding Elysium from the seabed of dead worlds, gourds of incorporeal cornucopias

Born orchestra morsels of sorrowful oracles predicting crucifixion of ellipsis’ antithesis


(MC) Aurora


Absonant  as my pen writes the twilight, the red swallowed on horizon and bright

As through a sea of blood under my feet and shrinking mast of my mighty ship

A shadow I make on that red snow and peep into my heart’s hollow

It’s deep as much as my pen spake of grief.

I blinded in that last light and hurled like a beast dreading the songs of holy lies

That have just pained in bright and made me grieve.

They dragged me on my wings and deplumate  me as so fallen humans

They wrenched my limbs and rive my heart out and flinger me in air and I laid forever

On the stones that dank my blood.

I wait for the troth  of  demise but betrayed as it didn’t come to detract,

I laid when the horizon grinned red on my face and poured the last ale

And brutally drank the last sip of me.



R.J Calzonetti


People are sleeping under the blankets of a tranquil streetlamp

A sunflower in the damp bed of concrete

Soon they’ll be pushing up daisies

Underneath the foundation of what I stand for

Nip the bud of the flower pedalling the root of all evil like fallen leaves

Breeding paraplegic freedom from the pollen melancholic

Anarchistic polycrystalline shapeshifters drifting vilified

Buried alive like asphalt constellations crowning metallic gallows alcoholic in my solitude

See the clouds bury the ground in half a heaven’s heartbeat

Limbo’s limitless abyss the photosynthesis of the sepulchral diablo

Revenants of redemption dancing with death

Evanescent in its bioluminescent crescent moon spooning illuminated illustrations

Of Himalayan mayhem cremated avarice of ethereal onomatopoeia unravelling catacombs in God’s palindromes

Homeopathic saplings decapitated in the dismembered September wastelands defibrillator

Invigorating the nightshade white wraiths plane-walkers of Apocrypha documenting entropy

Pent up sentience avenging the endless demigods of discombobulated proclamations nocturne graceless, octaves eldritch, evangelic

Elegant elevators to flights of staircases where the air is fragrant with the fragments of stagnant stained glass asterisks

Written gospels to masquerade hostage to the faith the man misplaced the sacred hate, the passageways of apathy apostrophe

Apartheid of serpentine survivors carving smiles on the sidewalks

Farming diamonds and their detox

Arming giants like a phoenix

Carnal nihilists with their secrets

Stardust quiet as the bleachers

Start defiant still a reject

Art discipled to our freedom

Shattered hearts pick up the pieces

Jigsaw puzzles, smothered treasons

Sow the seeds and **** the reaper

Even legions rhyme and reason

Tattered flags without a penance

Good men do not go to heaven

Buy your burden at 7-11

Your exit is the only the next entrance

Resurrection prepubescent

Asymmetric biomechanics

Anguish to be reprimanded

Megalomaniac in our sabbath

Living life is just a sentence

Psalms of seance death’s senescence

Baptize vengeance lest it ventures into heaven

Ventriloquist omniscience of rhythmic equilibrium

Earthly hurricanes reemerging insurgent as the sugarcane purgatory

Primordials metamorphosis contorting rigour Mortis oracles horoscope cloaked in cloaca hallucinations

Induced irradiated amalgamated retaliatory incorporeal chlorophyll

Born from the sorcerers' spell, the cathedral of doubt

The only darkness is within oneself, light shed within a holy shell

Isolation is a lonely hell, scythes of moonlight blight of bells

Nightingales fail to halo word of mouth

Enveloped in the clouds cast shadows hex

But resurrection cannot hide from the eyes of death

Fresh as babies breath

Rank as the body festers effigies

Bless the Nephilim the questions beck

And call for some god to collect the rest

Is there any answer?

Even growth can be a cancer

Lifeless corpses once were dancers

Devils waltz on top of canopies

Heaven’s hands have touched serenity

****** brands that crushed His enemies

Stained glass sanguine dismantled entropy

Calamity ran dry insanity dabbling in humanity

Unravelling the candy wrapper saplings of happiness

Pitch black irradiant dull edges sharpening archangels, darkness reincarnating

Blinding bioluminescent glistening abyssal rakshasa sarcophagus parting monarchies

Metamorphosis coruscating fornication immortalization Tartarean

Reverberating ****-sapien scintillating hurricanes palpitation circulating ricocheting oblivion

Shining crepuscular homunculus dully illustrious

Sunless avatars, mannequins of Abaddon stygian as fallen leaves on the breeze of Avalon Evangelion

Incarceration breeding Elysium’s jailors in the cathedral of double helixes

Bethlehem's’ new genesis of Lucifer’s crucifixion

Brighter than a fallen star

Mourning in the dark

Doppelganger apostles night stalkers of phosphorous

Pockmarked arcanum bloodstained in gravestone Salem

Where the braves’ halos dined on maelstroms alone

Heirs succeeding failures of the empty throne

Filled with nothings’ own

Brimming bound by Babylonian poems

Deus ex Machina's apocalypse coughing prophets of Samsara blossoming diabolic

Life is but a Holocaust

Death the moment God forgot

Breath the only psalm we sought

Kept within a hollow box

Shedding devils, angelic, lost

Finding metamorphosis


(MC) Aurora


A world often synonymous with beauty on the horizon,

Meet my eyes you mourned demon load the strength on thee.

Crestfallen light on your wrist burns down your girth

And you can plead, just plead your twilight sun.

Watch the dead sea swallow you in the salts of agony

And drown in the anguish, hundreds of angelic bloodsheds,

Press hold of the thumbprints on your throat, you can't roar.

Sore lugubrious melancholy aired atmosphere,

And downhearted souls dispirited dragons dragged along.

The sob grim hiding in a blue funk rusty smog choking wind,

The nyctophilliac animals howl long the cold-blooded love song

In your lungs and burn.

It's the twilight sun,

Just that twilight sun.
By Aurora & R.J.Calzonetti
Wanderer Sep 2011
Admired. Required to perform.
Feathers of turquoise and purple bruise my stage name.
Belladonna.
Blooming eggplant bright and dewy.
Eyes dance and twinkle only for you.
Indulge me my pet. Sharpen your knife.
I feel like blood tonight.
Tight smiles wreathed in crimson.
Waiting. Waiting for release.
Tear me open.
Burn me down.
******* away.
Daphne Skelton Dec 2015
White hot Flash
Drums of Vibrato
Echo down the Spine
Cold and Sticky
In the Chest
Pulling an Aching
Mind down to
Recollections of Oleander
And Saltwater-
Bloodshot belladonna Eyes
Poppy seed Vision
A loose-lipped Smile
Blurred hands
Violet fingertips
Pale white Translucent
Blue veins dark Stained
Iced concrete and Jasmine
Be still my Soul
Long enough
To Comprehend
The Nymphet Tragedy
Of timid Thorns
And soft strums on Steel Strings
Written longways
Read sideways
Neglected underneath
Rocky steps
Buried deep
In the salted Soil
And mossy Tress
Bathsheba Sep 2010
I
Found
The
Belladonna
In Nana’s bedside drawer
I slipped some in my pocket
To even up a score
Later
He came knocking
With that smirk upon his face
Yet another ****** night of being
Defiled
and
Debased

My
Lovely
I
Call
My wicked
Ways are always here
Taking you for granted
Having my way
Because
There is
Nothing
You
Can do


I set the scene
In such
An
Alluring
Seductive
Way

Fool

Thought I was finally coming out to play

Incense swayed
Candles burned
He drank the drink
Then
Tables turned

Vermillion visions slice through the stagnant air
Cleansing me of
Ignorance
Naivety
Despair

She doesn't know
That bottle of wine
That
We
Drink
That her
Glass
Holds
A Cyanide pill

So

This smile

She thinks
Is
For
seduction

Hides

The plans
In
My
Head


Something’s not quite right  
I have a
Strange sensation
Why am I experiencing
Hell
Fire
&
Damnation

Evil starts to slither on my heated skin
Maybe he just slipped me a ***** Mickey Finn?

Feeling now bedeviled  
I take another sip of wine
Bachus sits there laughing
Regal and divine

Where did this migraine come from?
But I am here laughing
As she drinks her fall
****, I feel sleepy

Could she have?
No!
She wouldn't be that shrewd
Women can't out think a man
So she smiles with me
Rubbing her eyes

I ask her to dance
It will be her last dance


I sense strong arms caress me
Music fills the air
Fluidity of movement
Lays my soul stark bare

I beseech the cold dark eyes of this man that I abhor

As

We

Slowly

Slowly

Slowly

.
.
.

Concertina to the floor
Carl Hoek Feb 2013
I thought I had been cast out of the mud castle kingdom. Then one day it dawned on me, 28 miles per second would be enough to break through my own roaring and escape back into
over developed proxy and reach a small awareness.
enough, i thought, to overwhelm a wall of demons.

Guarded are their black glassy gates.
Then one day it happened.
Pam, crying chemical rainbow tears while looking at all of the big red blimps.
"now clouds" she said, "clouds should all be plastic and red." And with that her ankles turned to dust and started a fury of little cyclones. Outwards , outwards.
now she cant spell forwards. she can't count backwards, and every other time she blinks her eyes the retina won't flip the image. The world goes upside down and insideout.

I can't handle it.  
They all lied to her, told her the world was just level.
I am sleep now. I'm weak. Those big long brittle spider legs tapping at the pavement. Those ******* belladonna eyes and wormwood spire. Godamned, he bent the buildings out of shape. He could sink all the gondolas in Venice.
Mimi Aug 2011
She might be a woman, bronzed face turned upward
worshiping in a small pool of dappled sunlight.
But she is most like a girl still
carrying along a pink blanket,
engrossed in her newest book,
legs crossed sitting on the porch in a
mauve and lace sundress.
The other colors of the world,
she fits into them, she wears them well.

The green of the trees in its last intensity,
beginning the parched death into the fall.
The blessing of a blue sky,
and the belladonna lilies have reached up
announcing the end of summer
(bliss, contentment, inherent joy of living)
with their bare stems and slip of pink.

The quiet charm of summer afternoons
in company with the restless spirit autumn brings
she sits to wait, remember, cherish the summer.
The cold will be on her soon.

— The End —