Saturday, April 14, 2012

flesh wounds

ripped dripping
skin strips
bones show
tissues glow raw
throat throttled
screams silenced
despite despair.
metallic scented air.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Why she can't write.

She often sits and wonders of
her own reluctance to describe
in adjectives and phrases,
her trials and tribulations
believing that to write it down
would make it worse,
or even, perhaps, more real.
The usual struggle with voice ensued,
settling finally on third person
to put distance between herself and it.

"It" is the story. The tale of woe. The Memoir,
the three headed hydra-snapping and snarling,
drawing blood with the gnashing teeth
the claws that snatch
at her soul, her sanity.

Standing waist deep in a sea of shit,
holding back hordes
of undead flesh eaters and
the occasional swarm of killer bees.
She, always the magician
she pulls the rabbit from the hat
with a sleight of hand.
Or perhaps a money trick, a payoff.

Once more they recede
only to return another day
with renewed vim and vigor,
and she again will pick up
the vorpal sword of words
to seize the tame the tale!
Her pen the medusa head
to turn them all to stone
and still the ever-writhing story
perhaps to slay it dead, one day.

for meeting the bar