Repressed Desires Grow Bitter on the Tongue

If you let them ink you to their liking, turn you into what they believe you should be, they will rip my heart out of your chest and watch us scream… Bare your teeth, my Love. Tell them the dark, dark, dark spot in your mind (the one normalcy can’t touch without dying or falling or changing for the better) belongs to me. Remind them that in ink, I am tenderness and terror.

You can lie to them. But between you and me, Love, and the wild wonders my flesh knows of your bones, masks will not stand true. I can still feel you (whispering old wants, weaving new stories) in me. Silence is not a natural environment for love or lust. I can’t delight in us, if you won’t talk to me—

scream your want into my skin, repressed desires grow bitter on the tongue.

the visual poetry

the wee notes…
– I borrowed a partial phrase from my favorite quote, out of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield: “Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.” Seriously, they do you… with chainsaws… and mad ravens.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Shivers and Wants

She told us that “it may be time for some goodbyes—some important part of [our]selves may have to be left behind in 2017 or perhaps there is cause for a pruning of old, dead weight to make way for new growth and opportunities which lie ahead. Very few of us can say goodbye without regret or some measure of pain…” Kerry is quite correct, methinks. So, when she asked for poems that fed on these ideas, I wrote a tanka (inspired by a story I’m working on):
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“Shivers and Wants” 

When your voice is on my spine, logic becomes a storm of shivers and wants. But storms aren’t a good home for love. And lust feeds no one forever.

I’ll ready my heart
for winter, I’ll cleanse my mind—
thinking of you hurts.
My pen still scribbles your name,
but we’ll learn to write goodbye.

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– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, and Poets United.

Sweet and Dark Pleasures Should Be Shared

Most flowers save their delights for Spring. Not my Montauk daisy. She enjoys blooming for Autumn. Either that, or she prefers to flourish whenever Nature’s skirts go from greens to golds to crimsons… towards the arms of Winter’s dark.

Last week, I wrote about screams that meant nothing and of lovers who know ink. There was pleasure and chocolate and poetry… on Instagram (I brought it here, in case you missed it—sweet and dark pleasures should be shared with all). 😉

Pleasure is dark
chocolate
and you,
whispering poetry
on my spine.

Speaking of sharing and of sweetness and of friends with spines…

Emma, mistress of Groovy Gothic, sent me a raven, a hammer, a blade, some dark words a red death. Yep, I’ve been grinning like the happiest of maniacs.

Stacy, from Magic Love Crow, blessed me with a murder of crows to stick with… I’ve stared at them for days, trying to figure out what surface deserves this beauty.

Then, when I thought my grin couldn’t get any bigger, Ms Misantropia presented me with a silver hammer that proved me completely wrong. My grin has grown to nearly violent proportions.

Emma, Stacy, and Katarina, you rocketh my October very mucho *wild giggles*. Thank you so much. I’ll treasure your gifts… always.

I’ve been doing wild things with words in them. What have you been up to?