3 posts tagged “poetry”
0328 hours
I wish I could love you in a cave. I wish that I could love you when men were still young. We would be still, in our cave while the ugly ancestors of tigers, turtles; irrecognisable, extinct animals (that are now black and unessential to the universe)... amphibious...hungry... scales and claws erect omnivours pad the outsides of our home. Where darkness is our door and space is our impenetrable lock to keep a frenzy out. I'd rather starve ourselves than be their bone pudding for tonight. I have better uses for him.
1215 hours
I scream, "Oh no, what shall we do!" In the days before feminism, I could get away with being so frail in front of him. It's my excuse to jump into his blanket of earth-smelling arms, salted and soiled from his bed. Kiss those lips, his lips that reach like vines that climb like ivy up my stalks. Only this giant can take me down. He makes my corpuscles shiver. Move in delight. In one lucid kiss and embrace, this man is a satellite transmitter to the stars and back!
0618 hours
The monsters, they go on knocking outside. Asking to come in. Stomping their feet and flaring their crusted nostrils while inside we lay, locked then were torn. They broke down our doors but I still feel him inside.
sent an army to climb my skin,
scale my follicles enter my pores.
They enter me, licking at my walls,
screaming:
May cause IRRITATION
To fuck, to fuckkkk. Creature,
criminal of lust to fuck!
Subject subject, I don't object to being your object
Regret, regret, I repeat not the past
I just go back to you.
My world is this perpetual calm and you're the bomb that makes me scatter.
For your apoca-lips, I'm willingly,
smiling dumbly to your beastial hits as poor
shelter.
It's okay to be unchivalrous,
buli bah kalau ko.
But today you make me shatter.
Looked me in the eyes without words;
sent down this shower like shards of broken glass for raindrops
and I bleed just to feel better.
Does this make you feel better that you're getting better at this?
That you need not even part your lips to slice through me, woo me or even misconstrue me.
This time could I remain in smithereens?
Pick up whatever it is of myself I have left
because this repainted glue makes me ever more fragile.
I'd rather be:
something crafted out of your soft hands when good arms fail embrace.
I'd rather not be:
just another strange fruit hanging from your full platter
under the pretense of being art
when all I am is decoration in your
house of cards.
©Nadira Ilana 2008
