"malodour" poems
Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.
The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.
The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.
Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets.
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,
the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
The darkness has consumed me
The malodour clinging to my rags
How did i become this?
Tormentors of vile belonging
Dwelling In the cavity where the roses once grew
Oh you should have seen the roses
Pristine and optomistic
They grew skyward ever chasing the warm sensuality
That filled the mind and body
Watered with the best of self
They flourished
Tracing the time
Where water became poison
And light became black
I find myself in the crossroads with you
Where my turn of fate became a fatal turn
My thorns magnified
The creeping fèeling that all things selfless
Begin with self deprication
And selfless is a virtue
The roses cleared from their home
One by one with every good intention
My garden had become a graveyard
And time became a dreadful thought
To have eternity in the dark
So that your light could shine the brighter
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC