porcelain, like a Doll ghosting in her shell
I built a prison, after the smoke escaped,
around your cannabis tongue
detaining your passion to an impassion
amidst wires barbed and fences
consumed by rhythms, electric …
I am muerto with no poems to give you
instead I`m dodging bullets in my closet
the residue of powders burnt
silence the rage trudging through my pulses
impulse`d by the treachery
that remains stained in places I`ve wept …
war of hate is being fought by a terrorism
you`ve inflicted upon me … you`ve taken
my love, my loyalist to you, hostage
How can I ever repay you?
a glass of communal chablis has lost its savor,
my nipples know of no value only that
of a strawberry dipped in the synthetic river styx,
that my heart had been ripped systematically from me ~
too much haze to blaze upon this theological glory
but there`s a story there, you know, of us
of orchestrated lovers maneuvering in the dark
and catastrophic roaches oaring on the mayflower
and on the abril`s sea of seasons
where the sunflowers and blood adorn
like you`ve never mourned for me ~
but as these tearless tears gas upon a gussied face,
porcelain like a doll ghosting in her shell,
you opened my robe and slipped me a note :
`True, I started a joke that got your whole world crying’
I poured hot tea into your tiny cold cup
and spun it `round to the girl crouched over on knees
with floral needles bleeding her hands please
and then there`s a man who doesn`t understand
that I`m not your bonsai tree
I could say …
`Look what you`ve done to me`
but sadly it will only be a shame
`cause I no longer have love [for you] on my brain
Horrific`a
whispers of blood
descend upon my reign
hold fast to the slain of your pain
for your bowels are at the hands of my mercy
so much pleasure in your dismember`ant
are you ready to repent?
what is it, my Love
that drives your screams insane,
untamed within me?
is it the seamless design of mankind
to fornicate scalpels across your flesh?
or is the ability to inflict
chaotic misery and thievery
in the absence of your God`s grieve`ry ?
shh, my Love, do not speak
there`s nothing here but the foul and the reek
you are my hostage in bondage lesser than a meek.
tell me, my Love, have you had enough
of my living death
for I can assure you that this isn`t
the last of your dying breath.
I have much to carve to slice to peel to feel
stop writhing, my Love, I have yet to seal
you fate within a catacomb of hate …
for me
you`ve forgotten my Love,
all those little serpent demons
dwelling in your carded house of semen`s
how you treaded on the vulnerable of my grounds
as you spun my head dizzy while your lies got busy
hour after hour sweat flesh pounding against sweet flesh
did you lay and betray all my secret secrets
with your treacherous mis`behaves …
secrets you can now take
to the Devil sharing in your grave
all your senseless whining and cries to escape
for the ill that you caused … tisk, tisk, my Love …
did you not read the fine print
of the no escape clause
of lovers who use and abuse
will automatically lose?
so this is what you`ve become
from a mother who bore you
and a father who molded you
a victim in a mistress`s lair …
and there`s no hope in all of my darkness,
just a Queen as mean as a killing machine,
hellbent on rage to pillage and plunder
and drag your unholy`ness under
chainsaw`s, axes and knives
to saw away, to chop away, to cut away
every inch of beauty that dwells in your lies
so as I stand here gazing splendid
upon your ingenious soul
I cross`criss myself for the valor of your birth
here on the marvel of this un`Sainted earth, and
for the sacrifice I am about to receive …
`cause hell hath no fury like a woman deceived
a snippet gospel of rage [dt dark in priests]
and he whispered:
`do not go gentle into that good night’
against this bodice that lies
feral & fetal`d
during his enchant`ed h-ours
of purgatory;
and he whispered:
`old age should burn and rave at close of day`
for at a quarter to meia`s-noite
skeletina bones in cath`olic girl ruins
break de`lovely from my flesh
for his breath is that of godly pigs
departing toward the gates
of epic slaughter:
and lastly, he whispered:
`rage,
R A G E against
the dying of the light`
for unconsciously, I have ascended
descended consented
to the viral die~mensions
of priest`s dementia
where darkened silhouettes emulate
and emerge from the leviathans
little box of gospels
sheltering these scarlet fractures…
cummunal sobrieties often
in the mimics of human dogs
have hinged these breasts
trauma bound shackled
guffaw is the nickelodeon trinkets
it`s masterpiece hooked and hinged
my pungent floral, detached from reality…
nothing gentle into that good night
DIVA of DARKNESS 