Category Archives: This Is Poetry

Minotaur and Other #Dramatic Poems.

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I lay with your weight upon me and
All I could see was a hand that was not my own
Stroking your shoulders, dazedly, hazily
An echo of my own movements
And I could have screamed.

There’s a heaviness on me that now
(in your absence) feels fuller than you did
I’d push my fingers through the flesh above my breasts
And tear them from my body
But I cut my nails in preparation
For this just in case.

Hands in my mouth
Pushing from the inside out
A retching that never ends and chokes me
And stifles
And ruins
And mangles
And I heave

In my mind my body can be discarded
A heavy overcoat made sticky with wet and slow rot
I’d grasp my heart and wrench it
And fling it from my chest in one great gasp
And be free again of you.

A snarl rises now and I bare my teeth
Expressions of an animal shape
You savaged inside me
Where ‘girl’ and ‘good’ and ‘whole’
And other such words once
Shaped this creature I called me.

Cavities and wretchedness and rage
And hanging flesh describe now
The minotaur you made of me.


It always amused me
When they- you- never considered me dark enough.
I always wondered what enough could be-
Did it have to be blackness and exhaustion,
An obsession with the sucking absence of light?

I am a thing of flowers,
I love a queen of flowers,
And both of us in our petalled glory have the taste of
Death
On our lips.
In my body an aching inch of time,
A slow decay,
A steady treading from spring to summer,
Summer to autumn,
Autumn to inevitable winter.

I always felt your darkness to be stagnant.
What is the dark without the bright,
The life, the living,
The brilliant dazzle of energy you work so hard
To forget?

Beautiful Persephone,
Immortal and mortal in her own way,
Taught me darkness like language.
Every breath a word, progression,
Marking a step toward the finish line.

We are all the living dead.
Flowers plucked and wilting.
She in her mistold tales
Rose from her kidnapping to become queen of the underworld.
Bruised pomegranate in veritas:
Vanitas, memento mori;
She is both alive and not alive;
She is thriving life and enduring death.

And so am I.
And so am I.


 

It’s like memories
Slipping my hands across your chest
Up your throat
Pressing and feeling you let me

Arms pressed down against the sheets, scrunching maybe, but still
Resistance-less, I press, and watch
And release to see the parting of your lips
As you take a breath.

Memories that never happened,
They’re rich like the chocolates I never ate
Or maybe I did
I think that I did,
They were wet and foul and turned my stomach
But they were something
And I swallowed.

The touch of your tongue to your teeth
Is particularly endearing.
I fantasise often
About the trust it would take to let me hurt you.

It has always been about trust.

Always memories that never happened-
Backward and forward in time.

There is discomfort in this confession.
It’s not pleasure. It’s not sex.
Understand that this format is never poetry,
Understand that these forms are timed
Linked to
Tied up within
My hesitations,
Each new line a caught breath,
An ache in my throat,
Waiting for fear to crest and ease
Or for my stomach to stop turning.

In my mimicry of you,
It’s your tears that pique my interest like
No one else’s.
In my mirrors and reflections I can see
This is not what you want.

But this is in you, too.

Harmonising

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And again, and again, the nowhere place, the liminal space,
Again with these halfway words
Within, without, holding, beholding, witnessing I suppose
But what
What beyond fixation and fascination and the push
This the pressure inside me that builds like orgasm
But when I grasp it, it fades, it eases, it
Falls folds up into itself.
Like towels being pulled from my mouth it heaves up from my stomach
Behind my ribs
Suffocating and thick, scraping
Each retch like forceps, metal at my teeth, fabric in my throat.

Urging me to sleep
I’d rather make use of this
This, I waste on vomiting words to friends
Describing prophesy, watching like birds
The non-fluid dribbling from my lips I offer, cupped in tremble-steady hands,
Palms upraised, wrists dripping, water or blood or something else altogether.
Like dreaming this, absence, I think, focus
And nausea and hunger and
This desire to tear out- at- my womb
Self-evisceration.

Clarity of vision like lucidity but
Alice down the rabbit hole
He never described the way it feels like suffocation
Lungs pulling hard on mirrored glass before it bursts

Peaches and cream fingertips
Cold and welted
Pull through or push against.

Spine screech
Like trains on rails or a fumbled bow on too-tight strings
Do I arch my back and offer my throat or
Do I curl over and inverse-gasp groan
Bite down hard, grind teeth, rend flesh or
Crack open my ribs and expose cat gut-cardiac muscle to the air?

 

 

Sorry for the silence- Notebook Tidbits

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Let me get inside your head,

Let me introduce you to want, to lust,

To the grotesque and the carnival,

To the blood and the hunger and the flesh.

Let me give you the taboo,

The safety in indulgence, in risk;

Here in words everything is sacred,

Everything is true and honest and

You will not be judged.

Let me lead you where you will not go,

But have always wondered,

“What if?”

My mouth is full of snakes.

I would throw myself to the tracks beside but it would take one half of me, and harmonic though my ribs may be I feel that is too harsh a price. With ropes upon the earth I hold my tongue and wait; bright green-yellows and gentle whites guide the eyes and hold them stable herein without and basic… Still they watch, they wait for this chassis to break, crack open and spill the world ultraviolet.

Silence descends. I will find my way back.

They exchanged “I love you” against each other’s lips, catching the words with tongues and pulling them back into their mouths to be inhaled like smoke.

It infuriates me, the way she breaks me open like a lotus, a rose. Every night she stifles my complaints with kisses, and with her touch bids me forget, lost beneath her gaze. Always the same routine; the sex, the paint, sleep and then she is gone in the morning.

A water box in a glass box with a fish in it, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to go in!

A fish tank is a vivid warning in my dissociated state and crossing from the park outside to the park inside brings me to a one-way vacuum door. How cruel it is to show us freedom, a world outside without the bars, the noise, the nurses, the beds without heads and doors without doorknobs.

“It’s only a follow-up.” He soothes and clutches my agitating hands to his chest, gentle though I know he clenches his teeth because I have scratched him again.

Have I been speaking out loud, how does he know? Will he leave me here- oh god the doors are open and in this tiny room the air is stale and sterile- will he come back when it’s all over? I cling, and breathe, and bite my tongue. He understands.

We have to wait for the door to open again, nurses, beds, and hospital gowns down the walkway behind the walls. My fishtank breaks open with a whoosh and he leads me forward, gently smiling, a shine in his eye, reassurances that are yet to fade.

I glance back and the door slips closed, nary a fish within the box now that it is within the bowl.

Quote

We’ve got a black underworld rising here,
and it will follow the moon and her shroud of the night,
while we fill your soul as the sky darkens.

Power feels good when it takes over, it makes you shiver and moan…

It’s so much better than sex,
just like the hunt,
the bite,
until it falls still,
and you’re left shivering in the dark
with all the deadly pleasure nerves can give you.

It’s like seeing the world in twenty-four dimensions.

It’s like hearing your lover whimper your name
with their flesh pressed against yours.

Or hearing them scream.
In pain or pleasure, it doesn’t matter, it’s animal.

It’s like knowing you’re the one and only,
the last one there,
and you can rule the world,
if you just ask for it.

It’s a simple thing to get and a simple thing to have,
but when it destroys you,
it’s so hard to get rid of.

You can fight it and it’ll always be there in the morning,
the pounding headache
and the deep seated self-hatred,
and the body lying beside you, shuddering with heartbroken sobs.

You learn not to remember their names.

You eventually stop counting.

And then,
regret.

 

 

 

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