a bit graphic. please, do not let the title put you off
of spit from between cracked
lips.
he salivates at the smell of rot.
my death scent makes him hard.
lips
pressed firmly to the ear piece
gulping down my heartbeats
with each wet intake-
each wheeze.
gouge out an eye or sever a limb-
i will be saintlike.
keep my relic in a box embellished with roses,
oh holy me.
it is love,
this red
smile.
what else could it be?
love, you've hijacked my ear drums.
you are distorting sound
and turning every chorus
sour. sour.
how did he manage this...
each spider faced lie
threads its silk
through my hair.
each strand he knows by name.
his nose recalls my post bed blood smell,
his darkness has committed to it memory
and his heart will fondle it on january mornings.
down past my desert's history
and my metropolitan disposition,
let me make way through the woods.
your hands cannot find, will not touch,
cannot clutch or tear at me.
dear man,
holding each breath
hostage
beneath your thumb
is no way
to go about things.
let us be civil. let us lie.
do not
chew my sinew
suck my marrow
place my heart
in a jar.
only be kind.
be kind.
how this malice
has found its way
under my pen point-
has poisoned my verse-
eaten my voice-
and shit out my poetry.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1260 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2008-08-19 at 04:03
Tags Love Hate Sex
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Print text
poem for a pedophile
i imagine the spillingof spit from between cracked
lips.
he salivates at the smell of rot.
my death scent makes him hard.
lips
pressed firmly to the ear piece
gulping down my heartbeats
with each wet intake-
each wheeze.
gouge out an eye or sever a limb-
i will be saintlike.
keep my relic in a box embellished with roses,
oh holy me.
it is love,
this red
smile.
what else could it be?
love, you've hijacked my ear drums.
you are distorting sound
and turning every chorus
sour. sour.
how did he manage this...
each spider faced lie
threads its silk
through my hair.
each strand he knows by name.
his nose recalls my post bed blood smell,
his darkness has committed to it memory
and his heart will fondle it on january mornings.
down past my desert's history
and my metropolitan disposition,
let me make way through the woods.
your hands cannot find, will not touch,
cannot clutch or tear at me.
dear man,
holding each breath
hostage
beneath your thumb
is no way
to go about things.
let us be civil. let us lie.
do not
chew my sinew
suck my marrow
place my heart
in a jar.
only be kind.
be kind.
how this malice
has found its way
under my pen point-
has poisoned my verse-
eaten my voice-
and shit out my poetry.
Poetry by halfjack
Read 1260 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2008-08-19 at 04:03
Tags Love Hate Sex
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Editorial Team |
|
Kathy Lockhart |
