I gave beauty a kick in the teeth
With my bootlaces loose and my heel
Sore from crunching all the rocks on the
Thawing pavement and now I’m feeding the Fury
With white grapes and Smarties
Before I create oceans of iron underneath
The cuff of my sleeve
Sunset sundown sun in full closure
I reap the dying thoughts from my
Temporal lobes with forks and spoons
Too eager with my promises
Too eager with my loyalty
Too eager with my trust
I suckled on the hope
Until instinct became duty,
A numbed down task I would perform
When limbs opened wide in front of me
I hung blankets over the window,
A rug with a city that I put upside down
I feel insects crawl beneath my skin
I am a safe house for those who run
From pesticide—
I never stopped feeling his hands on
My skin
Mourn the memory later
Hate the motherfucker later
Do it all, but later
The brain learns best at night
Till I die it will grow fatter
Inside the hollow above my pelvic bones
Beneath my tailbone, above my highest vertebrate
It will suck on the marrow and feed
While my hands panic in search of all things sharp,
Anything to penetrate the dry and crackly crust
So the Fury will stop screaming inside my lungs
Ecstatic and lustful for the anticlimax—
The comedown, the relapse, the revelry.


12 kommenttia artikkeliin ”Misadventure

  1. You certainly achieved the ”in the moment” effects in this piece. Some strong lines, and the images are tormented. This seems to capture the ”loose ends” feeling at the end of a love affair when once injured everything/one else piles on.
    Interesting and modern. I'm looking forward to reading more of your work.


  2. As always stunning – gruesome – tormented. You should get a collection of your best and sell pub them. Your blog is looking very organised and 'tight' lately too. Very nice. X


  3. heck..intense emotions…a safe house for those who run from pesticides…and…feeding the Fury
    With white grapes and Smarties….love it lilu


  4. What a storm of emotion and words–hate love lust birth death murder, all swirling around like a cyclone. Hard times make for hard poetry. Fine writing, even if it made me rub down my sleeves.



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