There is no why. There only is.
Emotion. Raw, uncensored, untethered.
Unadulterated tumult wreaking havoc upon our sensibilities,
evoking fat, anxious slugs to race down my cheeks,
peak on my nose and fall to their deaths, nestled in my chest.
Opaque truths turning, churning in my mind.
My tongue fumbling to form sounds out of feeling,
attempting to assign language to the chaos that is my consciousness.
But as soon as the effort is exerted, a suffocating and painful silence
blankets the world behind my eyes.
Nothing comes to surface, but the war is just beginning.
My infantry -- infantile, infinite rows of secretive explosives
excreting indignance in a vain attempt to unveil the insecurities that dare to rage on
in the fringes of my heart. One after another, shots are fired --
fearful of the future, my lips tremble.
Once the dust settles, only inquisitions are freely fired.
Is there enough love for me? Is it real? Am I good enough to receive this?
Malingering in the demons, I evade the true fears that elicit these tears --
Yes there is. Yes it is. Yes.
I am.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Until There is Nothing Left
I want you to consume me.
Swallow me whole --
I will contort my self to fit within your gaping stomach.
I want you to annihilate me.
Shatter my glass body
into a million suffering shards
so that I may sliver into your foot,
burrow into your skin, violating my home.
I want you to dominate me.
Make me your miniscule slave girl,
only good for washing and groveling,
groveling at your feet, O my Master.
If I dare to disappoint, unleash a thousand leather lashes
upon my fair, quivering flesh.
I want, I want, I want.
There is nothing left to say.
I want, I want, I want.
Death.
To be a translucent appartion dislodged into oblivion.
Silence.
To be your dream, your nightmare,
the poison luring you into sin.
The weakness in your knees and the hard knot in your stomach.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing left to say.
Make me yours until there is nothing left of me.
Swallow me whole --
I will contort my self to fit within your gaping stomach.
I want you to annihilate me.
Shatter my glass body
into a million suffering shards
so that I may sliver into your foot,
burrow into your skin, violating my home.
I want you to dominate me.
Make me your miniscule slave girl,
only good for washing and groveling,
groveling at your feet, O my Master.
If I dare to disappoint, unleash a thousand leather lashes
upon my fair, quivering flesh.
I want, I want, I want.
There is nothing left to say.
I want, I want, I want.
Death.
To be a translucent appartion dislodged into oblivion.
Silence.
To be your dream, your nightmare,
the poison luring you into sin.
The weakness in your knees and the hard knot in your stomach.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing left to say.
Make me yours until there is nothing left of me.
An untitled older skeleton of a poem....
My tongue is now empty
of all the promises that I would have begged --
gone forever now...
and of all the bait that I would have licked,
I now know that they are poison.
I finally see through your disguise,
I am only waiting for you to see through mine.
of all the promises that I would have begged --
gone forever now...
and of all the bait that I would have licked,
I now know that they are poison.
I finally see through your disguise,
I am only waiting for you to see through mine.
A poem by Dylan Thomas
In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in the arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lowers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in the arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lowers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
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