Thursday, December 04, 2014

Rust

It ached against the stillness of
her being. Intrusive, agitated;
crawling past deafening colours
splattered across her seams.
 It pushed.

Screams muffled in deadened spaces,
transients trapped; struggling to stay
afloat as swirling shimmers of
life engulfed her pallid breath.

Buoyant, her cognizance pulled
from the ebbing depths of past-
forgiven tragedies buried abyssal;
a flickering scintillation; writhing,
rupturing the pressure, breaking
through her darkness.

She smiled.


Wednesday, January 22, 2014

The Whore's Daughter

Red. She dreams red every night,
veiled moans and muffled screams drip
black and grey; dirty scars, fresh gashes.

A kiss on the forehead,
her disheveled mother, burdened by
sins of manhood. Rumpled notes earned
with stains of forsakenness, safe inside
the pencil box. Skimpy legs uncertain
on a path yet unknown, hurrying
before the first bell.

She knows.
Words  unkind, labels cruel.
The whore’s daughter,
teachers call her. Confusion unbridled
of late. Define whore, she says.
She has her mother, scores of aunts
and camaraderie of other skimpy legs,
laughter, sobs, fights and hugs;
A family.

Orange turns to night, the street
festive with colours of hope,

whispered secrets of lust and loathing,