Chipped polish on keratin Formed instruments of misery Against the carved ivory candlestick, But played in time and one half Between clicked wooden heels And shuffle scuffed leather toes. Shrieking warped wood boards Bemoaned the restless pacing Until eased by the storm’s drippings Rolled from the oversaturated linen. Youth kept the nightdress white, Precisely creased on double pleat Perfumed in almond and rice starch. The insipidness of immaturity Creeped up the ironed dart lines To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil, And seeped into the recurring path In a bogged mix of clay and blood. The sludge had smudged the vows Between the ruby and diamond ring. Lightning had taken exception, Or so it would have seemed, To the metal cockerel above the well. It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat Encased, leather, side button boot. He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once, Yet adorned himself so pretentiously For the eyes of the unwed maidens On the night he was intended to wed. The dusty manor house windows Did not hide the ostentatious footwear From the overwhelmed on looker As she bit her nails cuticle bare. Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep For the drunkard had overindulged On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin. But he cracked his crown on limestone Before his legs lost the ability to hold His brainless form to full attention. Inebriation settled most heavily In the bones of his shaking wheeze. Had not the split of his mindless skull Incapacitated his conscious movement, His well wished departure would be, To the greatest of detest and chagrin, Replaced by opiate coma numbing As his bride rode Peeler’s prize In a carted cage of lucid lunacy And cursed language of wicked folk. Luck had been her bedfellow, Strength her mightiest gift giver, And determination: her kind muse. No sooner could he groan in ache Than his moaning was quick silenced In the crunch of crumbled spine That met with a barren dark age well. Her hand warmed by the liquid wax, She stopped pacing to reflect with joy At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
Tag: woman
Anchored Beacons
Dew swept wind hills of May morning Captured moments in sprinkled droplets That begged passers by to be collected. We knew to wait another hour or two Before stepping into their damp tracks Lest we become entranced by their tales. Humanity bled memories into the valleys. Tiny beetles feasted in the chaotic morning, Their shells glittered in the gloss of droplets. When the night's trouble was collected They'd disguise themselves in a minute or two Before the songbirds could recite hunting tracks. It was finally safe to leave our sacred cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. The glorious warmth of a sunny morning Reflected in our eyes like twinkling droplets Of youthful hope. It was our courage collected, Shared and displayed between only us two, That we may complete our pilgrimage together No matter the troubled ground we may cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin. A journey of miles, trudged through a morning. Stepping rhythmic, drenched in sweated droplets And woefully feigning we were calm and collected. Fear was painted behind our mission worn mask As we checked the mapped route together, Arguing the shorter path as we replaced it's cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity. Legs aching from the endless walking morning, Bodies craving sustenance, but surviving on droplets Tipped from the final flask of water, and of hope. You snatched the final sip, cracking under your mask. It seemed we'd outlasted our journey together, Our separateness apparently hidden under cover. Humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity: Those who fought for the beauty within us all. We parted with the last seconds of the morning, Silently wishing the other would reconsider. Survival now was only built on an anchor of hope That outlived the violence and psychological masks. Hope, that final chant uniting the distant together In a melody no imposter was able to falsely cover. For humanity bled memories into the valleys Through the corpses of their fallen brothers. So few survived when kin killed beloved kin, Too many were martyred by man's monstrosity. Those who fought for the beauty within us all Are anchored beacons of hope in dirty waters.
Buying Happiness in Room 208
The cheap cotton shirt Rubbed on his plump neck As he sat on the edge of the bed Watching her adjust her cheap polyester bustier. They’d discussed pricing. He’d already paid half. He was nervous, Hesitant, Didn’t think he could So she cut him slack. She pursed her lips And tugged at his zipper. When she was bobbing her head He was positioned staring at the ceiling Unable to sit. Before long his face, Once a grimace, Glowed from completion. Slipping out another twenty, He passed her a tissue and left.
An Angel on Fire
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.
The Girl That Could Dance
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.
Are There Cradles in Heaven?
The unborn soul haunts me, Digging claws in deeper. Pulling my feelings into contortion. Why aren't they in Heaven? Has she brought them here? I wanted to be a good mother, I wanted to hold her when she cried, It was my fault I couldn't, Not hers. I was careless and stupid and young. Are there cradles in Heaven? Does a better person rock her to sleep at night? Do they tell her she is loved and cared for? Does she know I love her and I'm sorry? Do they tell her I'm her mother? Or am I the devil who left her there forever? It's hard to be a woman When you should have been a mother. I'm in no high regard with God, I'm written on none of the entry lists, I accept this duly. Has she grown at all? She'd be older now, right? Or is she cursed to her prenatal form? Does her daddy visit her? Does he look into her eyes with love? Or does he avoid her gaze from hating me?
