Those pens gripped had spilled more blood than ink, and now carnage roiled by each word spat in epitaph carelessness gathered in conscious pools, the bilious exhuming their regrets in a fountain of their own rot. If care were a weapon, then a nuclear strike had decimated the good and cold blue stared with disdain into their swooning weakness. Love not a cloven-hoofed butcher. Love not a cancer that eats its way into vitality and spins horror among the kind. Wading in massacre, unaffected by the calamitous morning song of memory and flesh bared, hearts are eaten and then shit by reckless lusts; dreams caught in incisors, filthy chunks of longing tasted, half-digested and then vomited with practiced tenderness and gentle touch. What a con, a gross manipulation of sorrows swinging from low branches like that snake’s apple, caressed with long fingers and cool calm. Somewhere was a soul, buried deep in the selfish crave for flesh, but nuanced wordcraft spun like webbing from lips molded to pleasure, and helpless flies lose their wings in the quivering gossamer of greed. Stop searching for reason. It’s death lurking behind callous intention, a body committed to graft and awakened under the sick ease of whispered intimacies. Reveal and be swallowed. The fester of a barren heart is it’s metronome timing, the sluggish inevitable tempo of a victim turned killer. Over the instant it’s set into motion, this derelict rhythm poses as a sonnet when it’s a dirge. The dancers weep, their limbs eviscerated under the falling knives of each retraction, sharpened on grindstones of false hope awash in the vicera of promises unkept.
#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #window #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #streamofconsciousness #writersofinstagram #story #storyteller #selfie #epicselfie #putonadamnshirt #blueeyes #portrait #probablytemporary #lousymood (at Revile)
Don’t it sing? This magnificent haze of burning that brings you to him, as if the orange glow of untamed wildfire on a crooked and spoked horizon. What malignant attraction. The darkest corner of failure in your defenses, where you saw hope in the allure of those startling eyes, those inviting lips, that conflagration of passion licking at night as if a tangible aura. What a fraud. Didn’t you already know? It’s unfounded curiosity and a slip of judgement. It’s weakness. For he’s deep devil, reinging Hell on a forked tail of satisfaction with a tongue working infallible magic and hands dutifully granting blind glee, absent heart where yours overflows with the honest need of now. He’s demon, a conniving work of evil masked in comely, long-limbed form and smooth eloquence. Dexterous words and fine fingers seeking flesh and wet, and how your yearning trips you into falling, how the night screams to welcome his fiery eagerness as if he were desert rain and not more vacant heat. The failure of your judgement sickens in the early hours, the cloud of wine breaking and revealing the dark failure such sad wisdom, a thunderclap split by the blinding strike of reason. No lesson learned, his plying weeds in your garden, strangling the beauty of your blooming promise which reaches for warmth and light but lays smothered under his weight when he pushes the long length of lust inside you, filling you, emptying you. The melody of his breathing an uttered curse in the thick, humid night, it merges with the frail musings of morning wren as dawn fails, your naked limbs splayed and awaiting another bout with him as if he were addiction. The fix never fixing. The dream of a heart impossible in his nightmare.
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Beat this riot of turbulent discord, shorting wires in the puddles of a Main Street where the huddled parade. Claxon earnestness screams for justice, yet hands fail balance and the rigors of responsibility cause soul tremble; edgy mornings that arrive as brilliant floods. Drowning, hands clutch a fist full of hardship, throat choking on the grief of yesterday’s chill. Alone, staring into the sun, going blind with the ease of rust on ancient springs, winter arrives as a blast of short white days. Weathering them all, these gray eyes search at the worry of untamed futures and squint against the steel of His cross. Vanity, fluency in the language of self-interest, and the collection basket floats across pews burdened by the faltering faith of loitering spirits. They’re gone from here, serving in the ghost lights of tomorrow’s mist; an early morning assault on the purity of day. He was day. Yet all he ever knew was an endless night, stung by a brilliant sun. #selfportrait #selfie #morning #light #cross #sunlight #bright #blueeyes #writer #writing #poem #poetry (at Crosshairs)