Lift me up if I fall drunk on life's alcohol. I stumble, maybe trip, mentally lose my grip. Happy smile; blinding grin between fast sips of gin. Swallowed whole; empty cup. Love, my life: Lift me up.
Lift My Cup
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Pink Gin Ballet
Am I to be poured of cold glass and dance with death in soft pink gin? We'll spin upon a tailor's pin wearing the tarnish of brass. Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass, I tread both lines in mortal skin. Am I to be poured of smashed glass and dance soft with death in pink gin? Reaper smiles sickeningly crass rapping bone on pondering chin with a heavy sigh of chagrin. This moment of visit must pass. I am poured out of cold smashed glass while death dances soft in pink gin.
Feast on You
The beads of your sweat dance As glitter in the dull candle light: Pooling in tiny wells of anticipation Purified in the heat of subtle terror. My beautiful centerpiece Trussed up securely A hungered entrée display Admired with heavy breaths, You're examined by ravenous eyes, Traced by the fingers of libidinous desire, For patience wears at starvation's tolerance. Let sharpened blade be unsheathed Let us feast on you To satiate this hunger Watch your warm entrails drip With the remaining lucid seconds. My pitiful meal, how shameful you've become Watching your heart stop beating in love's cold hand
Corners
No one digs in the corners Where the smell festers deepest. Their shovels just clang and clack On the crumbled poured cement That’s broken in the centre Because it lifts easier that grey concrete rubble bow Where the walls join together, Connected to the cold ground: Below the record player, That knew only but one song At entirely the wrong speed: Is where she lays, still waiting, Still wasting, still wailing out. No one will ever find her. The ammonia stings their eyes Should they wander close enough To spot the fresh plaster marks, Or the abandoned teddy Adorned with a bow, alas, No one digs in the corners.
Tartan
I let you scar me in answer to an askless question. I revelled ingloriously as each misguided infliction scored my futile seekings. A major that played first through fifth in sweet disharmony and lines of minor indiscretion. Tartan lay across my skin in various stages of healing. I held gauze in my teeth as you layered Razor wire upon my wounds - how would I bleed if not by your hand? Bandaged in the unresolved then left to lick free the salt while watching your heels meet the horizon in goodbye
Bouquet
I saw the postured seating - face forward - chin up - But an empty plate for eating. Flies thrummed buzzing wings - hollowed out - dripping down - Feasting on the heartstrings. Your corpse used as a flower vase - water held - death dwelled - Adorned in maggot petal grace.
Paper Maché
Ripped into strips of rough cut sinew Glittered in silver crisscross lines Ready to be dipped in thick glue And rebuilt layer by meticulous layer. This new shape is for the fickle faith That is chanted until made belief Or assumed to be the matter's fact - The curves are chosen in this lie To fit the outline it previously outgrew. The substance that the years cultivated Do not fulfill the quoted order of being So are left to rot in the garbage While the adhesive sets atop mourning To hide it from the surface view.
Shiraz
Against the cool of your skin Is the beckoning of touch, Ringing crystalline droplets Glistening trails on curves That plead for caresses. Anticipatory surface tension Tested against lingering traces Until ever so slightly vibrating In a sweet longing response. Suspense is broken by desire For a full bodied, sweet taste. Thirstily savouring the flavour, Sun kissed, warmed in hand And held in a divine vessel
Seedling
Known not as seed but seedling Etched in photographic memories That sear white hot in absent flesh. The body, too barren to hold onto What little life it longed to give love, Still scarred grievously in self-loathing. Small roots, that wished themselves To dig happiness from within fear, Found the ground soil to be lacking. But the sunlight would soon set, Bringing unfathomable darkness And cold typhoons of destruction. To compensate for the deficiency, The sapling clung to a cracking pot That recklessly scratched at itself. Soon the chippings stacked higher Than the edges had ever reached And the contents were strewn away. Wretched sorrow bled for hours Until the mud was thick as paste, Coating the future in a tacky glaze Of tormented jealousy and longing. No fruits or labors could bare bark Thick enough to be unfeeling. Other trees grew in orchards of poison, Their branches reaching outward, Upward to the glistening sun. How spiritless must this grove be To have only produced heartache In place of a vibrant linden tree.
Written to a picture prompt from the former Facebook group: Stardust Poetry
At the Gates
The exclusive rights to grief were taken: Shouted from lips that could never be kind, Painted on a face that had never seen, Twisted in the belief of false guiltlessness, And pointed at the remaining husk of me. The cold iron gates stood heavy in judgement, Separated the self-righteous from the sinner. The one heart that beat love to both sides, A heart once so swollen and overflown That it willed there to be a second pulse, Had burst its banks and bled out silently. Emptiness is the disease that devours joy, Turning time into a weapon of contagion Until we're all wasted and spent in heaps Of decaying flesh and worthless broken bones. A death lived and re-lived in cyclical attack, Feeding on the casualties that too have fallen Into the welcoming arms of temptations Union. When those gates sighed their disapproval How sweet was that call to be swallowed whole By the ravishing teeth of an irreversible vice And no longer be blamed by that judgement.
The Poet Armistead 