"fetid" poems
This is a fictional account, but based
On truth for many women. I was,
Myself, abused by an ex-boyfriend.
---
Here's the ballad of Hammer Hand,
I'm here to spread it 'cross the land.
He loved to hit, as you can see.
What he hit was mainly me.
He was a brawler in the day,
But I left him where he lay.
This is for you gals out there
Who are hopeless, in despair,
Who are battered, made to kneel,
I do this so we both can heal.
I was kicked upside the head,
But now ol' Hammer Hand is *dead.
~~CHORUS~~
Hammer Hand, oh Hammer Hand,
Did beating me make you a man?
I have suffered your attack,
You have made me blue on black,
Your heart was black, my soul was blue,
Your soul was false, my heart was true.*
~~~~~~
Hammer Hand was tall and lean,
He was big, and ha was mean,
He would snack and he would punch,
Then he would demand his lunch.
He used to hit me when he drank,
His breath was fetid, his body rank,
Whenever help I'd try to seek.
He would hit me into next week.
~~~~~~
Hammer Hand is dead today
And this is what I have to say,
I told him when he broke my teeth,
He would pay and come to grief!
*Satan himself will take you down,
And you'll be six feet underground.*
~~ CHORUS ~~
I'm a woman so you're bold,
But Hammer Hand, you're getting old,
Hammer Hand you've had your fun,
But don't forget I have a SON.
You can make me black and blue,
But don't you go and hit him, too!
Don't make him hate you, make him mean,
Soon he will be seventeen.
You said a thing which I believe,
You said you'd **** me if I leave.
But me 'n Jamie gonna pack,
We're gonna leave and not come back.
When I die, at least I know,
Where I'm bound, which way I'll go!
Down inside you know as well,
You are goin' straight to hell.
Hammer Hand, O Hammer Hand,
Now we've left, are you so grand?
You won't hurt us anymore,
'Cause you're dead upon the floor.
I don't think that you'll survive,
Shot with your own 45,
It wasn't me, I'm not that brave...
*T'was Jamie put you in the grave.
At sixteen he was pale and shy
But he put a slug between your eyes.
You made him beg. You made him bow.
Well. I hope you're happy now.*
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) June 11, 2011
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.
I look out my left window,
Zero.
I glance out my right window,
Zero.
The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.
We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.
In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?
There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.
Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.
The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.
In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells
People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.
Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.
No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
DEMOCRACY-PLUTOCRACY-BUREAUCRACY
OUR DESIRE TO HAVE A DEMOCRACY
HAS VEERED TOWARD A FETID PLUTOCRACY
AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKIN'
IT'S THE MONEY THAT'S STINKIN'
IN THE POCKETS OF OUR "ELECTED" BUREAUCRACY
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
The air is a mill of hooks --
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.
I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?
Once one has been seized up
Without a part left over,
Not a toe, not a finger, and used,
Used utterly, in the sun's conflagration, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedrals
What is the remedy?
The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
Of Christ in the faces of rodents,
The tame flower-nibblers, the ones
Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable --
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea
Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.
The heart has not stopped.
5.2k
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
you are the light at the end of a tendril. a spindle of dread, woven in caustic guile of argyle
parallelograms...phantom realms of solid waste. you are the pin in the subject. gating satan through a thimble
of crocodile tears, the new symbol.
the rude glyph in black bibles and strong drink, en-kindling the dead. rodents ponzi the scheme
of hell’s maze, with lies...your lies...
you have eyes that lead aside from your heart’s plot
you are saboteur. banal.
unrestrained waste. you are the fin in the barracuda puppet, grazing the wrist of Dim Henson
huffing crystal gorillas in the congo of your foyer
you are
the black chandelier.
teach me your cheap trick
striking off ‘ iron-on’ pinkie swears
your praline heresies... your ‘ no remorse’ code
lay bare to me.
better my better angels, to fathom the loathsome ****
of your actual mind. keep me abreast of your wretched games...
apply the rod of your wrong love, above all.... you must betray.
you must know in your fetid rot
of a third eye... the phlegm genius of **** blindness.... teach me the rictus of
cold hearted. a false god in my lotus !
spare me the chaste suzette
flip me the ***** that spits fables.
learn me the savage puns
to pummel you sustaining your worst done.
grant me the lethal beans for my sacred cow
trade me the idylls of your forked heart
for your crushed null
and crossed
bones.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
They robbed us!
The one’s that told us what it means to be men…
THEY LIED!!!
They told us feeling is wrong.
And they taught us to be STRONG is to be silent.
"Build a pit," they said, "make it so deep that a lifetime of emotion can’t fill it."
And we oblige.
But we know it’s there…
The stench keeps us up at night.
The fetid fumes cloud our vision;
The windows to our souls opaque to the outside world and those we Love, those we want to reveal ourselves to.
Meanwhile, inside, we’re clawing at the glass with bloodied hands.
GOD HELP ME!!!
I want to be free of this!!
See me!
I’m a human being!
I have hopes,
I have dreams,
I have fears,
I feel sorrow, I know regret, and I believe in redemption…
but all of this...
It's for someone else… someone weak.
What a lie!
So delicious we swallowed it whole—a bitter pill dipped in honey
Given us by those we love,
by those we trust.
The poison works through us,
unrelenting,
T w i s t i n g us, turning us against one another…
No emotions!
Not here!!
You’re a man!!
Be a man!!
**** it up!!!
**** it up until it chokes you!!!
**** it up until you can’t feel anymore!!
**** it up until you’re dry and broken!!
**** it up until you forget...
What life was and what death is…
**** it up because that’s what men do.
They corrupted our legacy
They stole our future.
And we let them do it.
We helped them do it.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
Everything heavy
settles
accumulating
as I go about
my external life
like my inner one
doesn't exist
when the tide
recedes
on my knees
in the fetid mud
I will dredge
meaning from
the layers
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
A lifetime has passed
since then.
I sat for hours on
that fetid bus,
excitement knotted in
my belly like a nest
of twisting snakes,
until we arrived and
nestled in the mountains,
South and West.
Our cabin was on the fringe,
just as I was, back then.
I spread my bed and
settled down,
made myself a temporary
home.
Days passed with but
little consequence--
rock walls
and
human foosball
and
oversized
jawbreakers
and
a giant swing;
corn dogs in the
sand of the
volleyball courts
and ice cream on
the balcony
at the overlook.
We hiked uphill
to find a waterfall
as utopian as
my foolish faith,
and there we
basked under the
Carolina sun
I climbed
and slipped
until I found a
perch behind
the roar.
I can still feel the
goosebumps
upon my pale
adolescent skin.
When I grew bored,
I scaled to
the top and
jumped
feet first.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
Bed sheets labeled wrinkle-free,
skin stroked
with lotions from
bottles stamped,
“reduces age-lines.”
Crevasses form
and crows’ feet caress eyelids;
folds spread
as little rivers
from her mouth.
New lotions,
more massaging
feed her desire
for perfection. Her glance
catches flaws others ignore.
Love falls short.
Heat from her lover’s body
warms her palms;
fetid kisses barely
brush her lips.
Wrinkle free love;
another misnomer.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
I used to grow flowers.
Pretty little petals
Sprouted from letters.
Into pretty little paragraphs
Sprouted from words.
Now I only grow lonely.
Ugly little concepts
Sprouted from doubts
Into fetid thoughts
Sprouted from desolation.
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 7:46 PM UTC
Soon after the sky had cast off
The tattered cloak of night,
And the midnight sun had set,
Helios himself climbed above the trees.
Dancing across the tops of dueling oaks,
Those primordial brothers between the ponds
Who, over time, grew up and into each other,
He sat spinning madly.
Shedding his golden rays,
As a lab shakes and sheds the water from his back,
They fell deliberately onto
And through my open blinds.
And I, stirred by the small streams of light
Cutting through the dark as if empty space,
I opened my eyes, only to close them again.
Lying, silently, I wait,
Tracing shadows as they slowly shift,
Dancing across the dull, white walls.
Fetid clothes lay protecting the floorboards.
The stale smell of smoke lingers,
Trapped in the soft cottons and polyesters
Of the cream throw pillows,
The blue waves of comforter,
The vast canyons of the corduroy futon.
Wine, fresh on my tongue,
Tells tales of the evening,
Lost of late in a world so distant.
My memories slip away like slack tide
Beneath rotten planks of a dock.
Twin cities, London and Paris,
A cold Christmas morning in Montmartre,
The warmth of the café we shared,
All hung up neatly on the wall.
Maps of emotions I never knew I had.
Only the breeze may speak here,
Whistling through the fissures in the wall.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
The midnight air is filled with
fetid sewage
the city block houses
yards of gravel and broken bricks
decorated streets of graffiti and *****
roaches skitter across sidewalks
A homeless woman sleeps on the sidewalk
a hundred yards away from the lofts
where I am safe
And I think where did it go wrong?
You lie here every night
with a casted foot and crutches
covered with the remains of a blanket
wondering where the next meal hides
Do you beg or play the raccoon?
This city never slows
sirens howl to the light polluted sky
constantly
like a coyotes staccato bark
Cranes reach toward the heavens
with a question to ask God
Can we build to your home and charge a fee to view the gates?
The nightclub below full of drunks
or to be drunks,
bellowing for attention
before riding home with a stranger
and waking up to another mistake
of empty emotions
With a hunger for acceptance
one will venture out
with one of questionable honesty
if the drugs are cheap
And here I am
walking the ***** streets
at one in the morning
in this menagerie of a city
because I can’t
Sleep
absorbing the sights and the smell
of sick and disgust
but in the morning all will be
Different
The sun will hide the dark
the sky will add color
the homeless will be camouflaged
with the busy crowd
buildings will look alive
bustling with people
the crane will be building
looking for an answer
And I still will not be able to
Sleep.
**** this filthy city.
And yet, I wouldn’t call any other place home.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
Fetid skin,
taut,
and splitting.
Organic treacle
seeps through the cracks.
Unending pain.
Why?
the question floods across your mind, Why?
A moments pause
Then a reply,
Because you deserve it.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
her face a bold echo of all she left behind
a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind
she lives them over and over
in the off color technical vision
of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure
the night crawls over her thigh
lodges in the warm wet of her fingers
and spreads into the windows
grey fades into black
the slow devolution
into the jaundiced eye
into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently
waits for words that can never be spoken aloud
the slow desire for tears
so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul
and her senses deny you
even as you touch the door
even as you evaporate down the hall
melt yourself into the humid night
so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret
so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath
to let go
the night crawls
in her bed clothes
laying its fetid eggs
like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet
its insect face bitter staring from her soul
now i see you
you escape over and over
door
hall
humid night
door
hall
humid night
but you never leave
narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid
lay open for the world to see and be seen by
and she molds him to the stain of her hurt
deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to
wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
some claimed the paddies smelled like
fetid fishes, ***** some said like the dung of oxen, peasants
or other beasts who squatted there
others whispered the fields reeked of death
while I found no odor to be grander evidence
of life’s languorous longing for itself
we marched those mired moors, as hunters
of invisible prey--ourselves too being stalked, or worse,
mocked by other hairless apes,
who like we, sought light, but
could divine darkness far better, for we
knew little of night, its sacred riddles
some said those places reeked
of rotted flesh, the festering relics of our deeds
I inhaled deeply, slowly
only rich, fecund stories
were revealed to me, ones I fear yet
this silent night
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
This carpet - a Turkish Smyrna -
is made with Gordian knots,
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Every centimetre - a hundred knots
This carpet - two and a half million knots
all Gordian
tied tightly
by the fine fingers of a child.
Each thread is dyed
with plants
picked by nomad hands
from shifting lands
Henna oranges and Madder reds
Saffron yellows and Indigo blues
Colours bloom and fade
with the change of seasons.
Patterns are centuries old,
never drawn or sketched,
only sung to the young
by the old blind weavers,
who walk the workshops
and the aisles of looms.
In this shadow world
of soured and fetid air
dreamless children
live threadbare under a black sun.
Wide borders holding everything in place
no figures or stories, just a labyrinth
of abstract shape and colour
drawing you in to the treasure
at the centre of the rug.
And the knowledge of the knots
the Gordion knots
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run—
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
1.8k
The sun was still cold in your breath,
half-awake still dreaming and we are way past that hour,
just waiting for the first light to break in and steal the dark away like a stereo.
The air was fetid,
reeking of sad news,
swirling about,
but we moseyed along carrying dustpans and brooms,
lugging garbage bags
like we were sanitation Santa, sweeping cigarette butts,
and in them I saw burnt time,
and in them I see mounting bills.
The cold air was doing a number
on us, dumping its oblique
sorrow on our then ragged frame
as we emptied waste baskets.
At times when I utter the word doctor,
your eyes go creamy,
your ears wag,
perhaps I was doing an impression—
an echo
of a forgotten life.
People were still groggy on their cardboard beds, their lips wearing soot as they drooped down on the side of their faces, the night weighed heavy on them.
Unlike most sight that slide through and veer away from despair in the flesh, yours fell on them with flecks of your heart knowing that from them we are dimes apart.
We swept, but your broom was nimble, springing into life in those days. Out of nowhere your hope swung a fist. I always remembered those words like a promise and held on to them like a limb.
“Though the world may forget, don’t dare forget who you are.”
Oct 8, 2024
Oct 8, 2024 at 12:58 AM UTC
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC