Sunday, 30 September 2012

Our Father

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. - 2 Corinthians 4:16

I sunk further downwards, In that moment I realized my Mother had made a mistake laying me here. 

What a treacherous place to leave me. In the corpse of a man who was now being buried underground. Violins screeched overhead, the string quartet broke the rhythm and an awkward silence ensued. Sniffling adults above me went quiet as the man, which was to be my host was lowered delicately into the soft ground.
A priest speaking, I knew the chant well as all my brethren could sing it, passed down through the memories of the dead. “Our father…” I hummed the rest through my mouth, devoid of teeth. A small expanse of viscous seeming white. God was my father too, made in my image and not the image of man. I do not take life nor give life, I only exist to feast. Just as God in Heaven does, but I feast upon flesh and he feasts upon sorrow. So we are connected as my kind were made to herald the dead to him. 

The string quartet starts playing again and the dirt begins to fall on my coffin. The last nail had went in a long time before, now it was the dirt that was heralding the end of my line. I would never grow black and spread my wings, I would be trapped here with my brother and sisters to feast until there was no more. Then wither up inside ourselves and die too, like this man. 
His face had been heavily reconstructed, I could almost taste the cold plastic as I buried myself beneath his eye-socket. His death had not been pleasant, therefore his brain would be rich. I would sample the fear in his final moments.

If his family saw me now, I’m sure they’d harm me but I am a simple creature and their loved one has been handed by God down to me. If they truly loved God, they would love my kind too.

Sunday, 2 September 2012

Divenire and Fly


If there are mysteries that traverse the hollows in your cheekbones. 
Are there worlds there, that only the bravest can go?
In your life, there was nothing but yourself and your dreams. 
Echoing out of the day and swallowing the night. 

If there are notes in this world to describe, the feeling of your hand on mine. 
Are there songs to carry you into a dreamless sleep?
In your eyes, as red as a forest fire, oxygen sucked away from my lungs. 
Echoing into a sharp wave, collapsing the room around us. 

If there are lies you are chasing to mold into hollow truths. 
Are there words spoken that even you can't hear?
In your heart, that broken shattered core coughing up your words.
Echoing into your chest, a fluttering heartbeat never felt. 


Is there anything sacred left? 
Is there a single part of me that isn't infected?
Does life have nothing in store for me but circumstance?
Petty affection crowning sordid inperfection. 

Another written, balled up and and thrown.
Valediction united on its own.

If you don't exist and I do?
Is that proof that God is a lie?
If I can have nothing inside myself but you,
Life may indeed be worth something.

Affair of the heart, wrapped up alone. 
A contender for sunlight and for the throne. 

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Mixed Works.

100 Puppets

Sunlight drips from the master bedroom.
Onto the dancing teenagers underneath.
Red dirt blondes are flicking their hair.
Smearing the pretty boys with hollow eyes.
The room is spinning as the strings are pulled.
Lipstick marks on ice white curtains.
Vomit lined corridors leading to a garden shed.
Filled with bodies cracking and melding together.

The puppet master lies on the bed upstairs.
His body a husk of what it once was.
Cameras flickering on the screens in front of him.
Behind the  splinters of his disused underlings.
“fantasy is better than reality”
he replies to a dislocated wooden jaw.
“So much it hurts”. 

Keeping It

You lean in close to me and I hold my breath.
The sickly sweet taste of your mouth so near mine is nauseating.
You direct me and pull me until my limbs start to feel numb.
If this is the game you want to play.
I won’t make a sound, not a single noise will escape these lips.

You’re forcing me under into this sea of depravity.
When you smile like that, you remind me of Father.
That look he gave you everyday.
You’ve learned well from him.
How to look proud but demand more with one simple movement.

Every whimper or moan that I hear from you.
The tune your voice sometimes carries in those moans of ecstasy.
The soft rhythmic beauty to those noises.
Reminds me of those songs you sung as a child,
When you pretended to be alone.

I know this is wrong but I have been walking this road for so long.
That turning back now would be against my nature.
I will live for the day when I have true dominance over you.
When the smell of your skin, the feel of your hair against my face,
Does not fill me with disgust.

Lungs and Laughs

My laugh rings from my broken chest.
The world has shattered my ribs.
Days of drug-filled laughter.
Hysterical shrieks of a delusional madman.

My lungs are a mismatched pair.
One is heaving breaths of cold glass.
Sharp shards have splintered it.
Tobacco has rotted it away.
It still fights on.

My other lung is a dormant husk.
Lying in wait for the day it is dragged out.
So, I can put it in a glass jar and view it.
A reminder of my sordid past.

I hear my laugh today and I love it.
How it sounds deep and does not chatter.
The life it is filled with, the peace it has found

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

I am a Button

I am convinced that this is what I have not been called before.
However, I will be me and you can press lightly on your forehead for a day.
The Picnic, I enjoyed the most.
I swear I was expecting it.
After all, we are like water only.
Sliding gracefully through the cracks just like the living dead.

...I will heal your thirst.
I will be like the whole of you.

I am the king of thieves to steal your sobs and I will etch into all of you.
I have you sitting in your chair, dining like a pig.
I am the great, grand dragon of the garden gates.
Disguised as a salamander for your convenience.
Standing in front of you with lots and lots of knives.
I want to live in a wallpaper of your misfortune.
Wrenching between the bars of golden snakes twisting your humerus.

There is beauty like this in the relationship upturned.
Cloth or silken moth devouring.
They hang like a woman lamenting.
Her husband has been swallowed by the monster of the sea.
In broken windows of your souls.

Rather than before, not after.
It will eat your children.

The softness is a cushion of warmth in the back of your chair.
I can cry at the shame of one hundred dead guard dogs.
When Violets are selling themselves cheaply it is not for crying.
Being held is on the line, lying side by side since the blood is out of the bottle, thick as jam
Save me from the milky goodness of who is in this frigid press.
I have saved you, drowned you in sticks, thrown you to the bottom of the sea.
And yet you walk among us, there to steal our very souls,
We will be forever postponed as Romeo and Juliet.

Making music from the back of a whimsical beached whale,
The kaleidoscope of the boat is blinking silently overhead.
I am a button.

(This is a google translate created parody poem)

The Carnal Flesh Of The Cleanest Sin

Are we going to live or are we going to survive this?
Squeezing our insides as the pain is one to do.

We will never know the true wrath of God.
If we do not open ourselves up to a life of most wonderful sin.

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit and I breath it.
I can look at the world and hiss at it through gritted teeth.

Soldiers always play their cards right when they’re throwing grenades.
We are the best of that kind, we are two sides of the same coin.

Lets spit in the faces of our forefathers and dance once again.
They wouldn’t have liked how we turned out anyway.

Maybe these days hold the minutes where we can truly soar.
If we were only man enough to grasp at the straw like possibilities.

Saturday, 19 May 2012

Fighting The Tiger

Sugar me softly, oh broken one.
Bury me deep in the ground.
So when I fall from my pedestal.
I don’t dare to make a sound.

Why is it so difficult to curl up inside myself?
Find a place and implode away from here.
It’s so difficult being me and being happy.
That I fake this same smile over and over again.

I wish that happiness could be bought.
Free to anyone who needs it enough.
So when this emptiness spreads from my chest.
I could emerge like a phoenix again.

There are days in which the fake smile turns.
When the comedy act sends giggles down my spine.
Suddenly I am laughing at my own ridiculousness.
How childish my misery truly is.

It is hard to describe to others why it hurts.
Why the beasts claws rip so finely.
That the speckles of blood are only visible.
When you take off my second skin.

Saving me is a task for a brave man.
I have not found anyone whose eyes notice.
Who could find a way in and free me.
By gripping me so tight it hurts.

Romance may be dead and gone.
My life may be cluttered and useless.
I may not have much to live for.
My purpose is to write and be heard.

Sugar me softly oh broken one.
Bury me deep in the ground.
So when I fall from my pedestal.
I dare to make a sound.

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Prison Of Pounds

 Poetry Challenge: Write a poem about your experiences when you wake up n the body of your enemy.

I wake up in Scotland.
The sun hitting my vast body.
My fourteen year old boyfriend lying beside me.
Here I am,
My own worst enemy.

I wrack my brain for his name.
You see I’ve only ever known him as “Jailbait”.
He’s like a less attractive Justin Bieber.
He stirs beside me and I call him honey,
Turns to me, leans in for a kiss.
I try and shove him but my arms,
Are so very short.

I wonder if she woke up as me.
She’s probably setting fire to my kitchen.
Murdering my cats.
Deleting my ps3 account.
As I lie here in stasis.
My soul wriggling beneath,
So many pounds of flesh.