Monochromatic, heavy days roll into
grey dusks ... flat and hot ...
continuity ... persistence.
Bubbles of empty elation ...
manifestations of sweat and tight fingers break the tedium of envy and agonised aspiration ... sometimes.
Imagine that I am 'that' ...
that I am 'her' ... Rigid with elevated and compliant composure ...
sweet equanimity. Direction. Flow.
Imagine that I am me ... arched over with the weight of my self-evident, self-fertilised, self-contained self-image.
Chimerical brick walls.
Self and Other: Lack and Abundance. Profane and Sacred.
Fear and Ease.
Scorn. Disdain. Contempt. Mockery. Sarcasm.
Ripening ... Putrefying. Maturing .... Decaying. Evolving ... Waning.
Consuming ... Consumed.
Where to now ? Chimerical brick walls.
‘Ansia’ on my shoulder, in my hair, on my skin, under my fingernails, encrusted between my teeth, perched on the
tips of my eyelashes ...
infecting my inhalation as she seductively gyrates through the stratosphere, slicing the air with lashings of foreboding
...
clutching my throat with white-knuckle intensity.
Omnipresent ... omniscient ... omnipotent ... ominous.
Hanging on ... Letting go.
Letting go ... Hanging on.
Loving You ... Hating You.
Wanting You ... Wishing You away ... far away.
Go ahead ... Hang me one more time ... I'll allow it ... This time and every
time.
God I love You ... sometimes.
Slut ... Bitch ... Weak Heartless Stranger ... Useless.
Why won't You go away ? ... For just a second and forever ...
Because I won't let You ... she makes me smile and I love how she feels
underneath me ... I love the way she tastes ... Long, soft kisses ...
Hard,
warm breath ... Angry Emaciated Fervid Impatient cunt ...
Jaded Wounded muscle ... Wanting her so much ... But ...
I cannot have her yet ... My reasons and You ... I feel like I am cheating
... on You ... on what we had ... You were her ...
I can still taste You ...
We are over ... You don't even exist anymore ...
Hanging on to nothing ... dead air and amazing memories ...
God I love You ... sometimes.
Go the fuck away ... YOU can do it ... 'Horses' and 'Bruisers' and 'Girls
from the Mountain' and fuck knows who else ...
so why can't I? ... You need it ... I don't.
God I loved You ... once.
I will walk away into my own arms.
Images of insanity.
Rejecting 'rationality'.
Imbued with innocence in the womb.
Infected by the touch of Man through birth.
Killing for God.
Slaughter for fortune.
Extinction and displacement for 'civilised' amenities.
A vicious orbit that feeds on its own flesh.
Death. Disease. Injustice. Inhumanity.
Pressure. Anger. Hate.
Denial of the individual.
Disproportionate values of lives.
Annihilation of the innocent.
Conquest of the penetrable: acquiesced.
Congenital. Man's primordial impulse.
Tragedy is a commodity.
Tolerance: a shroud ensconcing the proliferation of hate.
Sanity and silence: progeny of ignorance.
Ignorance is a choice: an extravagance owned and assented by the privileged; the shielded; the impenetrable.
Wealth is sanctuary.
One world: a time-bomb.
The House of Death.
The Pandemonium is Here.
To gaze at humanity is to discern evil.
Separate lives. Obtrusive dualisms.
One order ... inhabiting a deathtrap.
Justice is a fallacy.
The occasion for Change is a resplendent, scarlet unicorn.
The demise of innocence: Birth.
Your identity is borrowed.
Your nature is ice.
Bound and limited, you cast a morbid spell.
Your “checklist”; a white-knuckle shadow:
A pall on an otherwise sunny day.
Why must I live this?
My life is mine, independent of this bitumen-encased, fleshy double helix.
Your behaviours: predictable.
Your cycles: Expressionistic and repetitive … contradictions …
Phantom Limbs.
The touch of Man on all that you live.
Envy you? Why?
Compete? Compare? Control?
Collapse …
But ahead of the game … Life … You are the farce,
I am the student.
This is my own creation.
A trigger of emotion, vast and complex,
verging on raw desire and need.
That definite dye catching my searching gaze every time.
Subjective normality ceases to exist
as that deep, obscure sentiment embarks on a life of its own …
for just that moment.
A fervent demand for recognition. A painful need for progression.
A favorable, luscious response for my reverie to feast on …
These ordain my every action.
The eyes: “Windows to the Soul”, yet deeper still. Blue and suggestive.
Indigo Deceptive?
Beautiful and Brilliant enough to nourish my delusions
with their own clandestine motivation.
The fruit of an encounter:
Promising; generating that indescribable residue,
sparking that bright and boldly gratified disposition.
Unfavorable: leaving me numb, defunct …
with no source for the Illusion.
Depressed and alone … A cold, desolate place, exposed to that
bleak time-bomb of insecurity.
Then, unfathomable reality sets in: the prospect of a mutual condition
spurs me on, cultivates the attraction.
BANG! … The Words. That Dreaded Occasion. My corporeal Nemesis …
The poison of my fantasy; invading my infatuation …
Slaying the heart, the mind, the soul …
The Chance …
Both Sacred Friend and Profane Foe … her name is Hope.
If you have enjoyed Mel's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at lemneb[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Mel's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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