My love lives on skull island,
where roses grow from bony sockets
and children draw faces in caves
where their ancestors lay.
No trees grow on skull island;
only grey rocks, flat and colourless as the sky above
with its eternal cloud cover, threatens
but never gifts rain.
My dear lives on skull island,
damned to rule over sinless children
growing roses as penance
for my death.
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Hold up. What was that you said?
An idol of fashion, you shone in the spotlight
Taking over, taking us down
To the stages and ballrooms and screens
With all your wild creations and deep space riddled thoughts
We watched you play, reveling in your genius.
For all you made it seem effortless
And we in our joy and our misery, listened
Influenced by your dreams of stars and the men who visited them
Now, my dear, it is you in heaven.
What was that you said?
Yes. You blew our minds.
“…and the stars look very different today.”
Rest in peace, Mr. Bowie.
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Suspended mid romp
paws pause to slumber and yet
dreams twitch them beyond
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Come in
See what’s in store
for your amusement
come through the door
take all your money
place it right here
you know your friends want it
even more than a beer
Our wares are to die for
just look at them there
a ripped away pocket
a thin lock of hair
More juicy and flea ridden
I think you’ll agree
The moth-eaten clothing
Is better than free
So buy with abandon
Take home what you need
Your friends will be gleeful
For the free-for-all feed!
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having the Dickens of a time
with chipped nail polish
of a night in
crazed expectation
Pulling
Pushing
Manipulating me and yet you seem to sit centered
Unmoving
Smiling
With your magnifying glass like a student of ant life
Studying
Probing
My mind for ways to tease and torture while I’m
Running
Avoiding
Your sunbeam prism ray
Scorching
Searching
For the best way to leave me
Pleading
Pleasing
Or trying my best to because you bring out the
Begging
Simpering
Bitch in me with your
Pushing
Pulling
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romance comes
in so many forms
for some brightly lit in the sun, water falls and picnics
gah
what of that? sickly sweet and taffy cream ant infested bologna!
romance is this my love:
wine as red as blood
candle wax dripping upon skin
and pain
pain as sharp as the knife which i use
to carve your lust for me into your chest
as piercing as my body into yours – the physicality of romance
can you feel it?
can you feel the torture that i endure upon days
and nights of not knowing where you are
what you are doing and with whom?
romance is a fistful of angel hair and fingernail clippings
romance is a mindfull of possession and need
i hand it to you on a plate of flesh and bone
for you know as well as i
romance kills
doesn’t it my love?
touches my heart
like music
breathes in my soul
your love is
my saving grace
We’re closed for the night
all tucked in just you ‘n’ me
alone at last;
you with your tie and your shiny hair
and me in uncomfortable stockings
In the dark, with the lights off
who cares if they knock on the glass doors
we have nothing left to sell
except what we sell ourselves;
heated breath, exchanged, no receipts
Can they see us shedding the clothes
of mannequins? haha is that what they think?
Thru the window my skin is pale and if
I stand still enough perhaps
my porcelain skin will look to their eyes
innocent window dressing
You feel my radiant lust upon your chest
that I care not what they think
as I untie your tie and drop your drawers
and then the window dresser appears to be
doing the unspeakable with his porcelain companion
at closing time.
you throw open the doors
thrust out your chest
and bare your scars
like trophies of a life
indescribably regretful
you hand me the glass
a rough shard to magnify
the edges of your wounds
and you say
“examine
but don’t
judge…”
and all i want
is to pick out the flecks
of pain
like sand, never
letting
you
heal
your words are your pearls
beautiful
your voice screams your guilt
heaviest of metals
and all i want
is to bow to your agony
let me sew up your gashes
where your art escapes
and bleeds out your passion
…but no
if you stop bleeding
i’ll die.
badge by Doobster @ Mindful Digressions
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Linda G. Hill 