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.