Sometimes there are five faces
of wow in our breath. You
never knew me. As a child,
howling under ice: still
I am two steps and running away,
never knowing moments of pleasure–
of us dying together so that we might
survive. Yet, what would I do
without you? Take away the moments
of love and anger: with no warning,
we are as fresh as Eden, crackling
green and whole, rising in one joyous
shout. Your light is pale:
the fantasy, my deliverance.
I am your ghost. Deliver me
from hiding and cold memories.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Cherry Pickens, Femdom poetry, Feminist poetry, KaTe, Kate Bush, Love and Anger, Poetry, poetry as a writing exercise, Running Up that Hill, What it takes to write, zen and writer's block, zen and writing
I want to mold Jesus
into seven major awards,
and name them after
and dim bulbs, too shattered
to switch off the lights. I want to
tell God just what I think about preachers
and the Word. I want to take the boys and girls
too young to know switch-backs and S-curves
through blood sacrifice, rape and incest,
until they understand that the death of every living thing
means every living thing is dead, then teach them Soddom
and Gommorah, and fill their mouths with salt
until they can’t breathe. I want to give them a knife
and a lamb and an apple, and say: Choose the red flesh
you’ll give to God. I want to bathe in the blood of Lilith:
the earth from whence I am sure I came, and to whom I shall return.
We have a Tuvan throat: two
voices in one mouth. Our tongues
twine to a cry, twist
to moan. Until morning,
when we wake up
and you are there:
we separate and go
our own ways until night.
Under cover, we find our voice.
i’m here for the poetry, the vision. unprepared
for onslaught, eyes wide open, waiting
for the scream.
flesh will never contain a pure
shriek. thought expands
beyond corporeal. matter
moves, or is destroyed
in creation. i’m here
for the poetry. entropy
is for sheep. i’d rather
be a wolf.
photo credit: LivyAnn via photopin cc
All I want
is my two front teeth
and a red and yellow wall of flame
to separate us. A flickering rise
of firelight to shine
on the remains.
You’ve left me
for the last time. Now
I sharpen my fangs
on what’s left of you.