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: women
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
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
Meretricious
She lacks symmetry. In the curve of the looking glass She’s obtuse, Deliberate in naivety. Her melody chants emptily Constricting her harmony to base notes: Rooted and diatonic Yet obliquely tuned, off key. She reflects with the clarity That only the distorted can: Off-balance and perfectly malformed. In the eye of creation She’s a falsified sequence Sat between design and serendipity. A constellation unmapped For her rising suns are only set And her moons are drowned In the tides they made. There’s no happenstance here, To her, existence is a gift. The opportunity to remould The kinetic sand in which she swims So it may smooth the surface To form a meretricious shine.
Lilith
Beneath the moon-drop eve he waits, Watching time drift past his brow, Whilst the owl twittered in the ferns, And the sparrows nestled in the twigs, And the cold wind wisps wild 'round the willows, T'wards the twisted taverns of town, So he waits past the sunset, Waiting for the angel of his hearts desire. He waits for the girl of god, With rich brown locks draped over Her petite and delicate face, With silken, glossy skin that's laid Perfectly over her womanly curves. Fine satin flows over her form, Crested gold sits upon her hair, Crowning her with the first woman's halo.
The Poet Armistead 