And All This Is Metaphore

The Invincible Feminists

We're counting down the days to that day
where our wombs become as hard as rock
and we become more man,
shuffling around like thin mannequins,
all plastic tits, skinny hips, and bony hands.
We'll become sex fiends,
the dreams of all men,
divorcing the God of propriety-
skipping out with the whores, the girls, the fella's.

We'll spread ourselves, make music,
Drum rocks against our heads
and rattle our arms about like mad things.
We'll swallow pills like air and eat them with water,
Tumble out of bed, posessed, like witches,
riding out on our brooms to deliver
swift 'eff you's' into the night.

By day, we'll die like true warriors,
battling bravely over the office desks
instead of in the kitchen -
answering the yell of some other tyrant,
Instead of the calls from the kettles
and the ovens
and the microwaves.

We westeners,
we rich men and women
with our factories that feed our bellies,
our cooked bread that eats its own butter.
Across the oceans
starving children in their parched lands
grind their bones and sink into the ground.
And we sit back, dropping
pennies into their mouths like poker machines.
That's our medicine.

Today I cracked,
fell from a high place and found
A solitary hornet's nest mumbling inside me,
Eating away at the fleshy stuffing -
Their legs playing across my ribs like a harp,
beating their wings against my eyeballs,
wild with their frenzy.
I blink in spastic repetitions,
trying to shred the world apart.

I have counted each of the days
from the moment I shot forth,
soft and delicate,
ready for the seasons.
My feet have tangled messily in their ground.
And I have wilted under the sun's hot stare,
Parched and in need of some mercy.
O mother, mother,
please have mercy.

That is good poetry

You're in touch, keep it up and don't ever throw them away, you'll be surprised ten years from now when you read them.

Thank you.

Hmm. Funny that you should say that. I find it so hard to keep the things I write. They are in utmost danger from my mood swings

In their dreams
they are each of them, wild primitives,
swinging from mossy branches and eating
the swarms of ants gathering up banana trees.
And when they scream with that primal vigour,
I can almost hear
centuries of civilized humanity
unravelling at its threads,
snapped clean by the breath of truth
billowing out of giant boy-lungs.
They are like gods, my children.

I can feel you
flop against my skull.
You preacher of ideals.
Procrastinator of tired monotony.

You have inevitably caved into yourself
like a broken player,
abused beyond anything.
I have scratched your innards out
with the hour hand,
that deadly assassin,
Golden and silent.

Tomorrow,
I should feed you Dickenson.
Let you curl and stretch
around sounds and words,
beautiful and mesmerising.
Then someday, once again
You will come back in and shock
my wire limbs into a kind of jagged motion.
And I will miraculously awaken again.
Like clockwork.
Just in time for lunch.

Dear friend,
I have taken to midnight walks.
Fear not the white coats, they do not know.
I 'll pass through their eyes like amnesia,
Skipping out and taking flight
as the light flickers low.

At midnight,
I will greet your cold, grave face,
Looming like a wretched thing,
scowling at every human disgrace.
We both drip like water from the electric wires,
solemnly heavy in our set place.
At the same time, we're as light as saints,
walking on water like the miracle jesus,
journeying to purify all common taints.

And someday, my friend,
the world will rise and fall
beneath our touch
when we begin to permeate through all.
We will be the Gods of the world,
Everything under our utter mercy
bending under the set of our powerful law.

It is the lonely who are folding in on themselves.
Dying is like an art, and everyone an artist,
painting death onto their own faces in the end.
They are their own morticians
They are the real deal,
examining death from every angle and orifice,
ready to make the commitment.

It weighs on me heavily now, my love,
Crumbles further into my shoulders
Me, the idiot girl with her head,
hanging lopsided as if it regrets
this thing called existence.
Stupidly despondent in all of its might,
My eyelids unhinge and creak all night.
I want, I want. Says that brain of mine.

And now this spine which snapped itself
deliberately in two,
tugs at me waywardly and pulls me down
Crippling me into the dirt black ground.
I pine like a lost cow.
Gone stupid in my ugly head.

Milk me of these imperfections, farmer,
Blood and all, break through these glassed veins
Which have echoed inside of me for years on years.
Have me breed with perfection, give me babies
Strong and tough, tougher than I ever was,
The runt, the weakling. I come and go
from your sight like a glimmer in your eye.
Easiest to forget and quickest to cease.
You should have branded me long ago, farmer.
In your eyes, I'm just another number.

She came out of me like no other.
After months and months of pressing against
the nave of my belly and tickling my insides
with her soft baby-doll hands.
I remember those days.
How I'd drench her with my smiles all afternoon and she'd
curl up against my spine like some beautiful thing,
Tap-tap-tapping against my bones as if to see what they were made of.
Paper or stone? I could hear her thinking. And.
Will they ever break?

At night she would whisper to me from the pit of my stomach
and I'd feel her words
(like drops of honey)
making sweet
baby-steps up my throat
and pushing timidly past my lips,
tumbling out into the warm "kiss-me" air which surrounded us in folds.
Like feather blankets.
Mothers blankets.

From day one I had felt her wings fluttering inside of me,
brushing against my ribcage, spine and spleen.
I had almost choked to death on the endless giggles
that had erupted from both her and I.
Like mother, like daughter,
her father would comment.
And we'd both sit there contentedly, knowingly.
Drinking in each others inexhaustible warmth.



Yes, I know how romanticized this probably is.

"without words, you are nothing"
An old man once told me.
"words are angels of the soul." He cried.
"Words breath life into everything they touch"

"so where is my soul?"
I ask the blank notebook.
But its whiteness echoes back at me.
Its whiteness screams out between
all of its black lines
And the hands come away with nothing.
The hands come peeling away at my lips
trying to pick the lock off my tongue
and hoping that maybe then
the right words will come
one by one,
rolling out of the throat like marbles.

To the God who haunts my eyes when they sleep,
I say to him - "Maybe I am a used flower pot
from which no flowers can grow out of"
But there is never any answer
for he too, is a silent ghost.
He too, has those heavy marbles lying about,
rattling around in his stomach,
weighing down the syllables.

Oh Mother,
here you are on your pedestal
looking down at me like a saint
and cursing the skin that covers your devil.
The skin that must conceal
a whole world full of sin,
and the mouth that speaks of nothing
but excuses, excuses.

If only you took the time
to coverse with that gaping white eye,
the god to whom I send my wishes daily,
all wrapped up in string.
Perhaps then, you would find that I
am so tired of your ten fngers pointing
in all of the opposite directions
and then forcing me into the brambles,
into the electric wires
that crack my sky like macadam.
And the angels will not mend it
For they are frozen nude
in all of their purity,
and the clouds cannot cover it
for they are as dumb as sheep,
blindly following whichever way
the wind guides them.

To you the sky is black and white,
and I am simply the dumbest fool
who has fed her heart to the dogs
with a willfull hand, who has gone out
and plucked her own stars from the sky
to fill her head with madness.

Mother,
I am so far away from ever becoming
a saint like you, but I would like to try.
I would love for you to love
all of the good and bad parts in me
as if you really were loving
all of the right things.

Each night my only company
is the poor electric globe,
flickering on and off like a
sore eye and burning its dim light
into each black of my pupil.
The minutes push forth
with a cold fury.
The kind that rattles the bones
and makes the hour hand tear over
all of its black hours.

Come day,
my eyes awake,
shifting into gear like revolvers.
Everything seems
to wash over the skin like acid,
taking pieces away
and tucking them back into oblivion.
A blank space folds out,
grey and new.
It is vast and indispensable.