We dance in flames lit by the rebellion mother. We dance in flames crying each of the fallen names. At life's breast, united, smother Fear - In support of each other we dance in flames
Mother Rebellion
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Tag Archives: anger
Do not think after midnight
I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
Better Free
Locked behind bones wrapped in brocade an indelicate escape plea screaming inward for a reply. This bustle will surely outgrow the short lived modesty debut. One could claim you're on a crusade offending nobles in a spree until it's protests can outcry, overpower, your own deep woe - setting you down, trapping anew. Perhaps you'll set to work, or trade Or marry yourself a marquis. Resolve your fate with one more lie: he undressed you patiently slow then treats you as more than a screw
Bite Me Beast
Bite me beast. Feel this saccharine smile melt the rotting gum beneath the teeth in the same ringing, rusted tone as the "I told you so" that was never said. Bite me! See how fast the slack jaw snaps back to sink a saddened sully into your sore shoulders. Feel the teeth vibrate against the muscle - adrenaline promised you taste best when the meat is tender, so with open mouth, I'll knead the submission back into your rebellion. Bite. Me. Beast Savour the silence of shock, for that bite only ends in a wrath of stars: striking to transfix the minds eye, and feigning relief to hide a shattered grin.
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.
Reddy or Not
Razor blade eyes graze deep in the sin Exposing the tarnished rust underneath Dead layers of poison blushed rosy skin. Relive Each Day Remorse slathers its thick tongue against Every inch of your grimacing, paling face. Detached enough to only feel the spite. Regret Every Decision Rehearse the pleas for mercy at the sight of Extraction devices seeking to remove the Decaying truth from the depths of your memory. Recognise Empty Deeds Realise that the crimson wound in your chest Echoes with the wishes that you had started Dying before you stopped the others from living.
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.
The Poet Armistead 