"opaqued" poems
I stood pretty as a picture
In the full-length mirror.
Eyelines painted black
And traced like a cat
‘Round the pools and pigments
Of my icy blues.
My hair smoulders with gloss of youth.
A fire left untamed
With scorched red wine lips
Oh! Such rare delight,
To embrace my image
And not decorate
It with scorn.
I imagine pupils pouring
Over me. Men turned
Boys upon my wake.
Skirt hitched demurely,
Landing with subtlety
Above my opaqued knees.
I comb the heaving, damp dancefloor.
Search out for Beta-sex.
The kind to pin me
With softened kisses.
To love for the night and
Then like fireworks
Perish by day.
The music though, it takes me with
Skill. Oh! It knows the sweat
That clings upon me.
The rhythm takes me
Beyond the tooth and nail,
The attempt and fail
Of every boy to come before.
Sweet *** How it lifts me
And the mere presence
Of youth is enough.
I go home alone in
Absent knowledge of
The plight of women.
You stop me in the streets. You say
“Where have you been tonight,
Where are you going.”
But - not a question.
For, you dictate answers,
Scurry my body
With your eyes, soon hands.
You tower me, masculine height.
Oh! Such dizzying peaks
For my giddy mind.
I say “I must leave”
You say “Where” once more. I
Wonder, do questions
Ever line your lips? Catcalls and
Footfalls now so long gone.
We are alone and
We both know the case.
Your vast darkened hands clutch
At my belt buckle,
Draw me in.
Reeled, I kick up in death throes,
Mouth open but soundless,
Lungs devoid of air.
Laid out on the block,
I’m your catch of the day,
Your squalor by night.
Regardless how much give out,
How little I fight, we’re
Both in the knowledge
I am your’s tonight.
Your lips, they steal my neck.
Paralyse me, not
With softness
But with fright.
I stand pretty as a picture,
No look in the mirror.
A reflection of
Shame and submission.
Pools and pigments devoid
Of life. Emptied lungs
And icy blues.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
I barely see your face,
opaqued behind the mirror
the white washed wall
the house I've grown to hate
the expressions only come up
in out dated slang
spoken to a keep a tired joke
still relevant in the days of robots
and comet cosmic collapse
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
We are all born in a jar
(with a view of Mother from afar)
and it’s the glass we learn to see through;
refining me while defining you.
Those poor souls whose glass is opaqued
with smudges of fear and cracks of hate,
who never learn to see through
the jar that defines me and contains you;
they are the ones who hope and pray
that you only see your world in their way.
As these souls bloat too large to be contained
they burst the boundaries and are profaned
by the sharp edges of the jar
their rage casts the jagged pieces of; near and far.
But if, instead, our soul transcends
like light that remains unshattered but only bends
through the glass of our individual jar
and gives a glimpse of just how far
we have, yet, to go and have come:
What beauty, what symphony
we can glimpse more clearly
and ourselves more nearly
when we are willing to see ourselves, ajar.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
“be love” she said
the words rolling off her lips
like sweet honey down a
glass jar
he wipes the remnants from her chin and smiles.
peering
through the dusty window pane
opaqued by the loss of you
i muster the strength to look forward
as i always do
now the cobwebs have begun to clear,
and this glass will shine like
it once did
on a sunny Wednesday
afternoon
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 10:42 PM UTC