A thick-wrapped night, where fog,
like weeds, had sprung
and drowned Decatur Street,
'cept for a few lit eateries;
spitballs of dotted light.
A figure, running
like The Man was licking
at its neck, a teary ribbon
down its cheek a-dripping
pooling at the throat.
Wet, rib-shaking sobs blew lungs
already straining from the run,
my heart a rabid, raving felon
hammering his bars.
His prints still smeared across my wrist,
his voice an earworm drilling fast
into my brain, I dove into the mist:
a veil of doors.
A girl, a boy, I could not care,
had it been Jesus standing there
arm interlinked with that bold whore
who'd sworn himself to me.
A thousand thoughts rose in my blood:
a convent, poison, all too good
and none would help, just armour, hard
all over, 'gainst such treachery.
The cry came high: a choirboy scream.
My heels scraped gravel as the moan
grew stronger. Veiled in Chartreuse, swarming
solid mists advanced.
The Feu-Fo-Lay, my mother said,
when I was younger, in my bed,
will get you. Cover up your head!
His light is drawing near!
And always I would be asleep
in minutes, so it seemed. Beneath
the sheets, however, like a leaf,
I shook in knots of fear.
The phosperous washed over me.
All I could think was "finally
the Feu-Fo-Lay has come. He sees
that I was never sleeping."
Within the cloud, as in an egg,
a body, fragile as a rag
was silhouetted, black as slag.
I froze, as did my weeping.
Its finger pointed at my face,
a voice ill-fitting with the waif
began to pipe and resonate,
with coroner's calm, my name.
"A wish," it said, "thrown idly
into my path. You wished to be
encased in armour, utterly.
A testudo to harm."
My tongue an anvil, I stared wild
into the face that every child
has dreaded. Now amused, it smiled
and breathed, not quite a kiss,
onto my lips. Taste salt and gin.
Unpicked, spine to heel, my old skin
curled on the ground, a blood-warm cushion
for my faint. NOT THIS.
Spikes, not metal. Something sharper.
Felt like
scales. Some
skintight armour.
Fading light.
Green. Getting darker.
No! Come back!
Then black.














Devious Comments
Comments
My tongue an anvil, I stared wild
into the face that every child
has dreaded. Now amused, it smiled
and breathed, swift as a trick
on my lips. Sharp like salt and gin.
Soft, easy unpicking, ripping. My old skin
hit the ground, a blood-warm cushion
Spikes, metal.
for my faint.
Get back here. Get
A green light fading.
back.
very spontaneous and rar __
go on drive your myth. and i'll worship worship you.
--
--------------------------------
you robbed me away from
sinful - Jesus;
in love with matteo - [link]
well done and again, congratulations
--
...and if i'm not back in 5 minutes...wait longer!
"We shall bring the beauty of erotic poetry to the masses"
Wet, rib-shaking sobs blew lungs
already straining from the run,
my heart a rabid, raving felon
hammering his bars.
It demonstrates a wonderful cadence of escalation.
However, I think some stanzas are not so comfortably paced, especially:
The cry came high: a choirboy scream.
My heels scraped gravel as the moan
grew stronger. Veiled in Charteuse green
a solid mist advanced.
'a choirboy scream' is nevertheless powerful
Shouldn't it be 'chartreuse'?
Either way, I shall offer my congratulations; this is great work
--
~Coffeehouse had your mum last night
Just a couple thoughts:
-I wonder about the rhythm of "a choirboy scream", not that it's bad, but would "castrata scream" fit a bit more flowingly?
-"protected from all harm" falls quite flat for me, after jogging through the preceeding meter, easy but tense. The "utterly" before it is fine, but "protected from all harm" is just dead.
-Maybe it's just my jading to overused RPG and bad writing terms, but "Spikes, metal" isn't nearly as threatening as the rest of the poem. For so climactic a position as that line has, it would do much better to have more climactic words.
All around, very cool stuff. Strong images and feelings. The heart/felon bit was particularily enjoyable. Kudos!
--
If I'm not writing, I'm just sitting here changing oxygen into carbon dioxide. Like a baby. A little shit and piss factory, maybe one day a man. Be a man today, motherfucker.
--
Fuselit
Mimesis
the "a figure running" stanza leading into "wet rib shaking sobs" there seems to be a jump from third person to first person which can be quite confusing...
I love the manner in which you present an accent in the writing- it gives it a sense of culture
once again, overall beautifully written, yet it's difficult for a simpleton such as myself to follow such a subtle plot- but poetry is what the writer sees, certainly not me.
excellent job!
--
Peace, Love and Chaos.
SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAPPEN MORE OFTEN!
--
Peace, Love and Chaos.
Gorgeous. Your off-the-wall metaphors have been an delightful reading. A slight strain on the continuity, possibly on purpose, the extended metaphor did waver a tad but I understand the gradual growth and tension being built.
Congratulations on a intelligently created composition.
A well deserved daily deviation
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