My soul has hands that feed my mouth
delight boxes marked “poison”.
I have second hands that are language.
I gave up youth for silent lips that
spread too thick. Two plump
pulsating cream puffs injected
The boxes piled up to a thousand acreage;
a still wall with a calm face,
sipping tea with the Queen of servitude.
I have become a slave to iron curtains
and black rods.
Once upon a decade ago, I slept with
meaty warriors with bull-dog ears.
They carried sturdy death machines that
I heard them slice my siblings
to hamburger, while my stable body hid
in a homosexual bed.
I bled out of my ears for one tight night,
then woke up to the funerals.
I faced a casket with strawberry frosting
trim, small china pieces laid across
the mahogany lid.
I tipped with warriors, drinking their poison,
swallowing fear in full, single gulps.
They offered me a butchering tool
and I pulled it in, deep through
tissue and cartilage, into the warm cherry
pie that was wrapped inside my body.
I melted with metal. I succumbed to
murderous beasts that carry
and without useful hands,
I became a box.
I love how you turned cherry pie into a metaphor for your bloody body. 😀 Excellent. This really spoke to my dark sense of humor. I didn’t find it funny, but loved how intricately dark this was. Great.
Hart stopping stuff.
Oh Maggie, today I needed something dark and here you are offering it up in your words.
So do we all!
I felt seduced into reading each line in one gulp.
I was on the edge of darkness before I read this prose, but now I have slipped over that edge and into the warmth of the abyss, wrapping its embracing arms around me pulling me ever closer to what lay beneath me, myself, my life, something like dark red wine passes my lips, tasting nothing but dreams that may come, knowing not what the day will bring, pain, lonelyness, not joy and happyness, but strife and anger and darkness, i pray bring on the rain, let it flow, let it lash against the hardness of my body, rigid with rage and barely suppressed wrath. let nothing stand before me that cannot assume my gaze for lest they fall upon their knees before me I shall make them suffer, suffer at my whim and having no mercy within will I decide thine fate as I will.
I can’t imagine cream puffs and cherry pie have ever occurred in the same poem as such meaty horror. Gosh.
lol….pushin those buttons Holly haha!!
I bow before your courage! This is juicy stuff. I admire poets. It’s a medium I can’t perform well yet, but I still appreciate reading it. Good poetry turns me inside out.
Thanks so much! It always makes me happy to hear a kind review! I hope I see more of you!