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MotherAs you sweat over petunias,
I watch shadows
pour from chlorophyll branches.

You croon
when delphiniums bloom,
Heap praises
on your roses.

You tramp with shovels, rakes,
And garden hoes,
dancing in lime green galoshes,
to the passing tempo of July.

All while my minutes bunch
at the windowsill,
a half-done row of knitting
cast aside. I recollect my thread and leave
to forage for dinner in the kitchen.
Ghoststumbled beams
an owl calls
who?

frosted grass
footprints fade
with dawn
Waltzing with the DevilIn a house, apartment, in a palace pulsing
away from that idle pressure on my nape,
I possess minds which are courtesans: my cured
extremities are waltzing with the devil.
You might think of a sentient rhythm, a drone
sashaying in a cruel intercourse
wearing Venetian masks in mockery of
those gods compelled to eat burgers after caviar:
I love it when your china is spread on toast.
A thought would hover, a buzzing tinnitus
reminds you of a kindly perverted uncle
flagging down a platonic boy, blindfolded
by a riddle of locusts: come Abaddon
in a pitch of flies smothered by Beelzebub.
You would think I am the illegitimate
by-produ
For the Encounters I Never HadI released my regrets like a million balloons
chasing the sky with their bright round bodies --
wingless martyrs caught each tiny breath of air
and soared,

a moment of epiphany
when your rubbery skin punctures
and the soul escapes.

There is no element light enough to lift me away,
no instrument to sever the strings that earth
my tiny anklets --

I sway with the seasons
as if I am surrounded by an ocean,
unable to tread water fast enough to run,
nor find the reach to break the surface

where those regrets float momentarily,
winking in the sunlight before they coast away,
waiting for my realisation --

they pollute my conscience
go home, demeterDew on the whitecaps. I'm up
to my ankles in cut grass,
fingers brittle from this new cold,
like a handful of bobby pins.
Line of quiet vertebrae
and scale of careless bicep
extend up to the morning blue sky.

Pennies clink and jangle in your pockets
as you quick step over the stones
laid by some long-forgotten river.
Twine whips around each wrist, signs
of boredom you created while sitting
on that fence post and watching the cows.
Then, it still felt like a moist autumn.

My mind lists: candlewax, wings, twine
as you point out a Cooper's hawk.
Secret of how to fly
falls from your long sleeves,
spreads its cloudy bounty.
Y
AutumnSomething happened in autumn. Besides the leaves turning, anyway. They weren't very pretty this year, to be honest.  The trees changed unevenly because of the lack of rain in the summertime. The sky was gloomy for most of October.

I wanted to take photos of the trees with you before they turned. You know, cliché nature shots. A hillside lined with red and umber foliage. Maple leaves sprinkled over the patio after the unexpected snow in October shocked them. Milkweed spores detaching from their pods and drifting away. Things to line the inside of the photo album I was making for you.

We drank too much of the summer sun in July
Beyond Absolution: ProloguePrologue: Sweet Raptured Light

    I broke the surface of consciousness like a drowning man. Gasping thin breaths, I strained for air against the angry band of pain that crushed my throat to the width of a narrow reed. My fingers felt as thick as sausages as I dug them into the rope. A weak, phlegmy cough rasped air painfully past my throat, dragging me back towards unconsciousness as the pain threatened to spill over.
    I’m dying, screamed the wild part of my brain. I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying!
    Darkness blurred the corners of my eyes; co
A Way to ForgetI was seeking aimlessly
through the jars of my life.

I found them in a dream,
these great, magic urns,
one containing butter, one, milk
others filled with grains or brass or gold.

I was looking for the lids, in order to cover them up
but i could not find even one.

Sometimes, I would spill a little and
sometimes, I would return from elsewhere
to find them empty

This caused me a great deal of anxious sadness
just sitting there, looking into the empty containers
that once held my life

I woke up some time later and checked the clock
10 pm
I had not had a drink in several hours.
I needed a drink.

So,
I got up and
produced shirt
Never Give Love a NameNever Give Love a Name

i.

the Chachapoyas did not call
themselves the Chachapoyas

this name an invention
by the Incas          the history

of the Chachapoyas recorded
in ruins          fragments

of bowls          tombs
tucked in mountain cliffs

ii.

breath caught          in the throat
erodes the lungs          scratches

against the empty caves
left by the ribs          the broken

bowl of a shoulder blade
twisted bridge of the neck

that can no longer be crossed
ridges of the spine

a chipped necklace
memories of a kiss embalmed          tucked

in the folds of an ear
now there is only this

only this          the body
Red RuinsIt's 1964 or 65 or 95 or 2005. Dates don't matter anyway. What matters is what happened and why it happened and how it is now.

I can't remember the date but I'm wearing a red sundress and I'm in love with the way it flows. Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I was always in love with the idea of things or the idea of people instead of actual things or actual people.

So I'm wearing my red sundress and I'm six years old. I'm six years old but I feel like I'm forty and I'm having tea with my mother. 'How are you?' She says and this is where I learned how to lie. 'I love you.' She says and this is where I learned how other people lie. I watched he
the living and the deadI lie on the floor, I cannot bear
the bed, the sheets, so sweet smelling
soft. I lie on the floor like it is the deck of a ship
before a storm.

the things I used to tell you
no one knows,
the nightmares followed us home, but I like
to think you have learned the secret -

where to begin the forgetting. I
put you in a room like a moth
in a jar, listen for your last breath, open
the door, but you are gone

the scent of burning
hair, the animal fear, the way your
knees brush each other like leaves,
soundless

I lie on the floor, my hipbone falling
between beams, dirty laundry under my cheek,
I fall asleep watching the rise and fal
things i have buriedbatches of badly folded letters from my grandmother's
apartment, all tightly scrawled russian, smudged ink.
the luna moth my brother caught when i was seven,
its wings becoming a chartreuse stain on his palms.

the mark of every song that has ever made me feel,
each differently shaped and stitched together
to form the patchwork of resilience that is my heart.
sepia photographs, antiquated polaroids,
with nothing written in the white spaces
where stories of moments should be.

narrow granada streets, their uneven cobblestones
turned hazy with august's heavy heat;
the familiar taste of tears etched into frown lines
that i am too
In MemoriamAfter: I set on the walk to home,
By woodland paths; I paced, I paced
But then as the cloak of dark came down,
I nearing my old town- was not braced
For that image of moths, flickering blue-
I stumbled there; reminded of you.

So I spun on my heels in evening gloam,
By autumn leaves I raced, I raced
Away from the moments that rendered in silver,
Cast glamour on the forest face
And stabbed through the shimmer of early dew-
I could have died there, surrounded by you.
To the VysehradTo the Vyšehrad, Prague (May 13th, 2008)

I left a sliver of myself adrift on the Vltava,
the mother river. Not a piece of my heart, no-
nothing so yielding or moveable as that.
A curve of rib perhaps, or the third digit
of my left little finger, the largest vertebrae
or the deep roots of my wisdom teeth.

I shed a bone-it slipped out from beneath
my skin in the late afternoon,
when the sun on the new, smooth headstones
covered my eyes with blindfolds
white and gold; it fell
into the foreign trailing arbutus
without a sound.

When the rain came, later, it rolled
with the black grave garden dirt
into the river and settled,
where god is a butcher
i.

there is a slaughterhouse
where the hungry men reincarnate
as bulls. a cleaver spattered in red
teases: chase me, chase me now,
caresses a thigh, then thrusts
its tongue like a knife.

ii.

he hangs in wet pieces.
the street salivates with rain,
swallows the leaves
that once lined the way.

a boy eyes his flank,
an old man trades silver
for his feet, a girl enters
and passes him by.

iii.

if he had lips
or life, he would beg,
daughter, it is i!
but she chews the fat

with the cashier: a new child,
weather, supper plans after
mass for her widowed mother.
she wraps him in the morning
paper, tucks him in her bag
Browse More Like This

More from ~metalmistress

Juana La Loca
I did not fall asleep in the stable;
that’s where you hid yourself – stop,
attracting flies.

I didn’t go there to look for you,
I didn’t wait until the ungrateful hour
you there, she there, mixing blood
at my lesiure.

You’ve done me wrong, much like
the many before and after you
and still, after the stable doors close,
barred up, I can’t rest a minute
between the buzzing.

I did not lay down; I figure
it’s why this happened as it did.

I’d come look for you, offer you both
an apology
but I can’t be certain if you’re still there,
attached.
I just want to document it all
I just want to document it all, as much as I can, before it goes away. It's an urge I never really felt before aside from the awful moments, of course. I need to write it down – every word as it sounds and as it's meant and I need to fold the paper cleanly along the lines before I tuck it away. It's almost too important. So, so important that I forget. I forget before I have the chance to finish each word. Then I start forgetting why it was so important to remember to begin with.

And with this kinda amnesia, everything’s a mess. You get caught up in it where, yes, you can’t remember what you were once fussing about but you
it's even more dangerous toand I made sure to secure the door behind me,
struggling a little with the latch
how many times before?
pieces of skin, dried bubbles of blood –
I sat on the toilet with my head
between my thighs.

I was afraid and refused to answer as she
purpled her knuckles from the other side.
I was scared, not because she was impatient
but, because, there was a mirror I
intended to use.

the music drifted farther away as
the voices layered each other like
whores and the atmosphere of
the pass-around.
I could see, as if
you were in there with me
and all I wanted was you, dead.

at first, no one seemed to notice.

I flushed the toilet

Featured in Groups

:icondd-catalogue:
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an architectural tragedy

:iconmetalmistress:

I am sad like an orphan, I am sad
like expired milk.

the greatest of distances, dotted lines
of latitude, the lengths I’ve promised
I’d go, cannot always
be bridged.
somewhere in between the waiting,
spanning time like noise in the branches,
the thicket’s dead stare, I sink down and into
a reality of curdled disease.

I’ve shared space and air and sighs
with those too close for comfort; a
warm chair, dry-heave tag-teams
racing for the sink, an erect palm
waving a pride that should be mine.

I’ve had all the time in the world
to waste on mistakes. with make-shift
memories, I’ve built my own bridges
from bed to bed to bed, rising above
my sour shadow, their
telltale invitations to gape
or leave.

I am empty like the sky, I am sad
like sutured skin.

I’ve tried to build a bridge of love
alone, but it’s overgrown
and endless
and not strong enough to close
this widening hole.

6,325

220 92 172
:iconmetalmistress:

an architectural tragedyby ~metalmistress

DescriptionDetailsShare
Download HTML download, 1.2 KB
January 18, 2009.

:sniff:
©2009-2013 ~metalmistress
Category: Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

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Submitted on
January 19, 2009
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Daily Deviation

Given 2010-03-10
an architectural tragedy by ~metalmistress. ( Featured by `fllnthblnk )
love 0 0 joy 3 3 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 2 2 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:icondelliversagain:
~delliversagain Aug 25, 2011   General Artist
This is a half and half one to me. 2 clichés which ruined the mood for me (too close for comfort, built my own bridges) but all in all, I enjoyed the flow.
Reply
:iconbrokensymphony:
*brokensymphony Mar 13, 2010  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
Great work. It's very elegantly lyrical, in spite of the nature of some of the imagery. The DD was well-deserved.
Reply
:iconmetalmistress:
~metalmistress Mar 14, 2010
Thank you so much!!
Reply
:iconraneva:
Mood: Big Grin ~Raneva Mar 11, 2010
I can only say 'wow'..
This poem really touched me.
The structure, the words..they're all little masterpieces to create one big masterpiece.
It's been a while since I've encountered such a talented writer..To me it seems you captured the emotions perfectly.
You truly deserve this DD, keep up the good work!
Reply
:iconmetalmistress:
~metalmistress Mar 11, 2010
A 'Wow' from me in return. Thanks so much. That was a really sweet comment. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment.
Reply
:iconraneva:
~Raneva Mar 11, 2010
You're very welcome! :hug:
Reply
:iconthe-helloed:
~The-Helloed Mar 10, 2010
I rarely ever ever ever read poetry, but this is really nice... it's inspiring yet it makes me kinda sad... excellent work ^_^
Reply
:iconmetalmistress:
~metalmistress Mar 11, 2010
Thank you so much!
Reply
:iconfictionalsoul:
~FictionalSoul Mar 10, 2010  Student General Artist
the imagery is beautiful, I love the repetitive "I am sad like..." bits, they are different but convey the feeling well. great piece =)
Reply
:iconmetalmistress:
~metalmistress Mar 10, 2010
Thank you very much for your flattering comment.
Just a question though...All of a sudden I am receiving 30 comments on this one poem I uploaded months ago. I'm a little surprise, haha. Is there any reason for this, that you know of?
Reply
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