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brea Sep 2013
in a dimly lit bucolic moon--
erstwhile a blooming, beauty,
riparian valley...
a widow worn down,
with beleaguer of ethereal sin,
spoke swiftly to the sky.

her verandah the ocean--
her audience the sparrows,
soft dulcet moans slipped
from seer's mouth.

the wafture of the waves reflected
in obsidian overcast iris,
vision surreptitious overcame her mind--
susurrous, her lithe body convulsed
in fits of meaningful jerks.
Although evanescent, she changed.

(Eyes clear, voice booming, not desultory in the slight)

she brooded for a moments flash,
quivering, uttered with but cerulean to listen,
what had played before her eyes.

what she knew with certainty.
the tragedy of the girl who's ashes--
floated in the summer breeze.
benevolent and altruistic,
taken advantage of at not thirteen.
in her woe, she jumped of the cliff
between clarity and fog,
into Hades firey wrath,
her body never found.

seer shook with violent tremours,
the ephemeral dove now chirped,
as she made way to the holy man,
the one to whom she was to confess,
a fugacious bone creaking draft
left her paranoid.
but what was a woman of her character to do?

once upon father's altar,
woman called to the dear messenger.
she hissed and requested
a private meet.
Startled, the priest led her to
iron doors of his quarters
when inside she barred the doors
with a sword from the hilt behind the passage.

now toward this evocative woman,
this man was not one of holy thoughts
her plump ***** tempted one
who had only before been promised to god.
but as she told him of what she had seen
he remembered the countenance
of last forbidden love.

red draining from innocent lips
leaving ugly guilt to forever remain
regardless of bleach and arsenic.
red hands to forever stay
perpetual stains on cleric robes
never the stark white of heaven again.

enraged priest pounced,
to which our dear heroine had no defense
spine slammed against stone wall,
head concussed and blurred.
our seer now decided (too late)
to always listen to ones bones.

she soon found a thick rope around her neck,
as she felt herself being violated below.
history repeats itself
all she breathed was damp, the mold.

when darkness took over her,
and her lungs tantrumed and kicked,
the priest took out the gleaming sword,
cackling, leaving a sweet wet trail
ruby necklace on white marble.

and he dragged her to the old well
boarded up and fading with age
a pungent putrid smell wafted up
a remainder of what the priest thought
were days long gone.

the seer, with her dark charcoal hair,
and omniscient clear gaze,
fell awkwardly on top of not one,
but seventeen.

the priest had fun once too.
Esther Icarus Apr 22
In the morning I wake like taxidermy.
Like I’m born on my birthday,
all foam footed,
hugged in hide,
navelless and novel.

Bearing my chicken neck to the people and their human picked pockets.
Cold blooded, warm blooded,
beige blooded hourglass.
Shook up by tantrumed hands.
Stood in sandy sandals on sanded steps,
growing a calloused ground on eggshelled feet.

Toddler drawn curtains over my human hindsight.
A vampiric tendency to avoid the hissy fitted sun.
Its firmenting nature—
a parasite light, out to put a side to symbiosis.
Reveal the sidewalk cracks,
break my mother’s back
and sprout purple-flowered weeds of superstition from it.

But the sun is out.
Only out to spoil the ignorance of bliss.
Turn my apple pulped corneas to wine,
send its stains sprinting out my nose.
Cross my eyes with the sight of it.
Ill behaved as a tongue chasing its tip.

An ancient offer.
A tongue for a tongue.
Not for an eye, not for I.
Not for a mouse in the stomach of reptilian shame,
stretched too thick against thin walls,
snakey tastes of its naked tail.

Not for elephants in ivory rooms,
not even elephants in elephant rooms.
Not for owls who ask why.
Not for lizardly love basked on smashed tortoise shell steps.
Always the case.
But not, but never for the cannibal animals.

A vulture’s talloned talent in waiting.
In line for a hopscotch drawn on my blistered back.
Lying on the trampoline floor,
barking up this tree trunk torso.
Twisted ankles crutched on the enemy’s armpit.
Caught by the smell of orange ****,
skin of yellow teeth.
Caught in acts.

Today I woke on the morning’s wall.
Sighted and sensed and stuffed.
Suited in ill-suited skin.
Colon full of semi colons,
breathing a furnaced breath.

Petted flatly with the day’s open hand.
Like the first touch of petroleum,
the health of the dead
pumped out of this crude cruel invention.
Softly, mechanically drooled about.
Today I woke,
unpreserved.
feedback appreciated :)

— The End —