We Got matching Tattoos And we laughed when they sketched them. The needles buzzed, But we didn't pay them any mind, We merely enjoyed their sensations. When the guns were pulled back Our hearts had matching hourglasses, But yours was half empty, And mine almost full. We assumed an artistic difference Nothing more And delighted gleefully, Content being forever linked. I didn't see that last grain, But it fell faster than mine.
The feathered wings smelt the worst, Like plastic had fucked hair and created hatred. The smoke those feathers created Wrapped itself around every breath And burned our tracheas raw. At first, His visit was delightful, But as judgment reigned on our indiscretion The townsfolk yelled witch And bound His wings with the rope They bound their wives with at night. We were entranced by the screams Just as we were oft enraptured in each other’s sex. Gleefully we cheered melting skin, And screwed as the fat charred, Breathing in roasted celestial. The final flames danced at the messengers’ feet As townsmen recovered from climax, And wives licked each other's wounds clean. We satiated all violent and sexual desires, The day we set the Angel on Fire.
Outstretched legs that could reach the sky, And nails long enough to lose an eye. Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined, Face tight, flawless, and often kind. Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise, And affection that came at a price, Back tickled with golden hair, A body most beautiful bare. Elegant movements, jeté, plié, Childish as very cliché. Parents who raised their child right, With the grace of a mythic sprite. Shame everyone else had loved her too.
Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated! I took the man up on his offer, And sat on a stool inside the tent. Across the large wooden table Sat a Fortune teller Drowning in hemp cloth And gold charms. Her face was haggard, As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes. Her breath, strained and heavy, And the smell of stale smoke, Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs. She placed her hand out on the table, And coughed, wordlessly Demanding my hand in hers. In my open palm she placed a red stone, And closed my fingers tight. Are you a whore child? I gasped, offended, A whore! How dare she! I guess you’re just promiscuous, Don’t be offended, I’m just teasing, child. She started laughing, Throaty and coarse she cackled. But her humour was fugacious. You’ll be barren of life, You’ll just be a stand in, A temporary. Her words spun around my head, As they tightened the garotte Around my throat, Pulling burning breaths And twisting them under my tongue. Would you like some tea? It helps with the truth, Makes it palatable… I sip the mossy coloured liquid, It burns my mouth, But I can breathe again. I can breathe much slower, Pulling air deeply Into my famished lungs. Yes child, that’s it, Breathe. I nod, and bare my hand, The red stone in my open palm, It was tinged with black, Like a plague was spreading Tainting its surface. You won’t have to worry, You’ll not be left a spinster, You’ll be left, Penniless, naked, Alone in a ditch. Wha… Wha… The words slur incomplete. My breath long but shallow, My eyes open, Unblinking. Just breathe, Let Mrs Delora liberate you, Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated!
Do you still smell the same? Intoxicating and inviting. Being wrapped in your arms, Would leave me drunk off desire, Do you still taste the same? Rich, and melting in my lustful mouth, Like freshly pressed coffee, And sweet fragrant vanilla. Do you still feel the same? Would your touch leave me trembling again? Would my hands still know you? Grip you tight in ecstasy.
I am years of depression in the making, A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate. Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience, Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning, To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering, Or to will my heart to cease beating. I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain, And I am played over my own disturbed backing, Pretending every moment is a blessing, When really I am gluing my pieces back together, Finding discarded shards all over my psyche, Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am bursting at the seams with rage, Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania With the snapped threads of my heart strings. The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws, The seething grit that sits in my grin, Aims as inwardly as it does outward.
My Dearest Armistead, What has kept you for all this time? Has the pen weighed too heavily in your hand? Did the words seem too fleeting to write? I hope you were happy. We shared such dark times before, Times that only a writer and their mask can share. Are we picking up where we left off, Broken and shattered? Or have some pieces been reassembled? Let’s hope this glue is stronger. I see your life is very different now. You carry more grief upon your shoulders. I worry Armistead, will those shoulders hold? And your smile, how long 'til it fades again? Aren’t you scared? We tend to bring out the worst in each other, Focus on the wretchedness of your life, And rip the last bandages away, Exposing the emptiest parts of your soul. Oh how I have missed you. Now, Armistead, Let’s get to work again, shall we? Regards, Armistead.
Images move animatedly across the tv screen, Sounds are blended into the background noise, The foreground filled with heavy breathing, The satiation of pleasure between two, Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’ The sequel, a follow up on two series merging, Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie, The gentle curves of tassels and bows, And the growing basket of perfectly painted, Single expression, pose-able dolls. Years of playing courting, marriage, Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby, Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed. The babe who once played with dolls, Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae. Within a flash, the two are married, Both taking and barrelling their surnames, Living equal in their roles, life, and love, Until the hourglass is empty, And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.
Burn me to beyond my flesh, Until charcoal becomes my bones, Prepared to fall into unskilled hands, And trace amateur musings on cheap paper. Remake my ashes into your altar, Ready to receive sacrilegious homages, Prayers filled to the brim with debasement, As you pick your false God, or God’s, And punish each other for differing choices. Betray my actions with your memories, Portray as a fictitious being of your design, Claim dominion over your perception, And pass on your contortions to your kin. Teach them of my misery and woe, Belittle my mistakes to lowly choice, A haphazard misstep by misstep, That led to inevitable brimstone. Pretend me to be a sinner in life, And a fiery withered soul in death, As you picture thick sulfuric gasses, Turn and swirl in my remnants of lung, Catching breathless behind my tongue. But don’t scream when your lack of reformation, Stemming from absence of self-reflection, Leaves you burnt on my named headstone.
Yous are ruining my life Belts an immature Geordie tongue Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. I hate yous Screeches her juvenile lungs Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. You’re not a very nice mummy Shouts the crying child. Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. * I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast
The Poet Armistead 