Unnamed poem #1

I want to feel your teeth

In my neck, skin,

Clutching fresh, and gnawing,

Peeling, breaking lips.

Leering, searing, seeing, feeling

And I yielding.

Like the dead, crumbling in.

Body of the grave, that rots,

Petrifies and falls in.

Soil that composts and blackens nail

-scratching-

And tastes rich and molten,

Like that single rushing vein

I feel pulsing.

Rhythmic and sure,

Such as he who plies and upheaves

The fields for varnished wooden

Boxes laden with waiting

Corpses, who listen as he pants.

Body to body

Purple branding

Aching as time pass

And littering, exposed

Both muscle and fat,

Naked and tender

Like a baby, just born.

farmer

His dry cracked hands

gripped tightly to his tools,

as he worked the dense earth.

These hands had cultivated many a plant,

brought life where others found none,

he watered, nourished and cared

for them daily: Sowing vitality

with every step. He breathed

for the plants and they breathed for he.

 

But there came a day when

the farmer, growing old and frail,

could care no more for his harvest,

or the cold, dank earth in which it grew.

Each and every crop and field and flower and fruit,

wept as they walked him shuffle

about his house, but would he come out,

just for a second? And if he did, just for a bit,

was there any chance he`d notice,

how his harvest, his once beautiful

harvest, had grown short and thin,

broken and bent- malnourished in

every sense-? No of course not!

How could he notice

if he would not even look to see.

 

When he grew poor he sold the land.

Though the plants would wept

for him no more, for the land were

already poisoned with their salt tears

and no more could they grow here.

 

 

Cry Wolf

It started rotting slowly and hesitantly as though scared to mar the bleeding crimson muscles of the no-longer beating heart. But gradually the rot consumed the heart and made black the tender red flesh- the hand of the devil tearing and consuming the life no longer left. From the heart, the decay began to spread. The skin was ruptured, made hollow by putrefaction and the air became pungent with Lucifer’s breathe, attracting insects to make nest, feast, burrow and lay eggs amidst the bacteria that did not relent. Deep wounds that lay uneasily and rugged on the chest were made illegible by the swarms.

As soon as the sun meet the horizon and the sky grew gradually dark, someone would watch as the corpse slowly wasting away- just mere meters from it in the safety of the brooding treeline. Some nights they would reach their hand out as if to touch, but would always retreat before the ghastly claws could be seen by the light of the moon.

The moon reveals what the sun cannot.

And every morning as the sun rose and made light the sky, that someone would dust the dirt from their fingertips and disappear among the trees.

Everyone knew of the withering body that lay in a clearing in the Forrest, just beyond their small village’s borders. It was only Joel the beggar’s boy who knew of the woodcutters night time ventures, for he had watched the woodcutter sitting and looking intensely at that mangled, ruined flesh as though he expected him to stand and shake free of the bugs that bound him to the earth. Joel had seen how he would slowly reach his arm towards it only to retreat sharply at the smallest shift of light. This beggars boy was so slight from his troubles that any step he took could have no impact on the ground beneath, making him nimble and quiet, free to gaze on whoever he please. And gaze he had; on how the mayor would cheat at every game, how the priest broke his vows and how the women were more than eager to please, how the baker would throw wrath and fist behind closed doors, how the butcher would hide his best cuts of meat- only for him to eat, how often the stable hand could be found asleep among the horses. But the woodcutter’s secret was what perplexed him the most, tempting him to see more.

On a damp dreary evening Joel waited in a tree for the woodcutter, in the hope that this night he would know why. Had the woodcutter killed them and was trying to console his guilt? Was he just curious or just trying to control his inner most brutish thoughts? Or was it merely a sick, morbid fascination? But perhaps this was dangerous and Joel ought to turn back? For if the woodcutter was a murderer, whats to stop him form murdering this scrawny lad? Yes, Joel would leave, leave the woodcutter be, after all his father had always scolded him for snooping. “Let not other’s sins become your own” or was it? “Let not silence become your sin” Joel supposed either way he’d be a sinner and slowly climbed down from the tree- better to be a living sinner.

But all sinners meet hell in the end.

Joel’s body being small, as it was, decayed quicker that the last- his broken flesh hollowed out before the week had passed.

 

 

 

 

To dance with the wind…

‘Twas only a game, merely a show-

when many a child flew off into the night.

Poor Mary.

Under the trees and through dense foliage.

The leaves inked with the dead of night

and trunks pushing the shadows with all their might.

Poor Mary pale as the placid moonlight.

Once upon a time, there was a village set in a wood so fine and dense with opportunity. A night of gale and devils dew: a possibility unseen by the villagers, happy and content behind a veil of ivy and leaves. As every man and women slept peacefully in their beds; the children fitted and fretted instead. For just beyond every window pane, the wind playfully tapped and danced away.

The days grew long for tired wee boys and girls. “We’ll make a plan” She said. “When heads hit pillows let feet hit soil as we dance with the wind and air.” So it was done, and when daylight hours were gone, children would play in crystal air.

Cold: the ground was cold on their bare feet. Patiently they waited.

The crisp air embraced them all with clawed hands and springing feet. They played and whirled and whistled through the night. Around and around with each new gust; further and further, through brambles and logs. Glistening eyes and pointed red lips. The night gave way to new places and noises but a bubble and a gurgle broke through their senses.

‘Pon reaching the river they all turned on home, for the cold was upon them and the day was arriving. So they all left; all but one. The child whirled and bound so caught in the web of dark beauty and cold caress. But slow the water did make you and fast was the wind. Breathe child, breathe.

Poor Mary.

(Author’s note: this is one of the first ever short stories I was able to finish, having only ever written poetry before hand. It was done as part of an assessment about 4 years ago in school and this is the unedited version (sorry), I’ve never been a confident writer but hopefully I’ve improved since then and fingers crossed this will inspire me to write more short stories and improve my writing- anyway I’ll stop blabbering now and thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! 🙂 )

Smoke

Figures moved like smoke in low light,

seeming to float gracefully

in endless circles lost

to the feeling of the air

and breath on their skin-

air that smelt of damp

and breath perfumed

with the whispers of broken promises.

Faces passed blank and unfeeling,

their eyes glazed over with tears

that never rolled down

and met with the pavement like the rain that fell,

persistent and cold, all around them.

I moved with the crowd,

their distant minds as sweet as first love

and their bodily nearness

sickening as an embrace.

Inhaling deeply ,

I felt every particle of chemical pollution

that danced around us

and burned surrender in to our flesh,

melding us into one.

Heart

There are words left
Unspoken on your lips,
Written like the lipstick
of some hidden lover.
A crimson hue-
intoxicating.
Rich as wine
and just as potent
too. It’s in your heart,
moving with every beat
further through you,
circling, getting richer
with time, ‘til the strength
of it scorns you
and pulses, white
hot, in your veins.

Your heart slows
in anticipation,
watching, waiting.
“Oh, what a delicious burn.”
It has you delirious,
drunk and craving more.
The minds a slave
to the heart
my dear,
and the heart’s a wicked fiend.

Sub Rose/ Under the Rose

Though his lips and their careful caress,
He fills my lungs with his fragrant breath,
And when he parted, it was then that I felt
The small seed lodged deep within my chest.

The stem would eventually begin to wrap
And bind my breath in loving clasp,
And when the leaves would begin to sprout
They’d leave me panting, tickled by the gentlest
of motions. And the crimson petals where a beauty
better left unspoken. But in time the rose would mature,
and become taut over my tender lungs. It would be then
that I would feel the thorns that marred in silence my passions and desires,
and how the perfume of such a sweet flower would burn
my throat and punish my chest every inhale to the very next.

The finger of Harpocrates placed upon my lips
So I could watch with bated breath
The man who silenced me live and love again.
We are forgotten, only when the last root withers.