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Literature Text
Here sits her bloody highness;
Bitch del Mundo -
humanised. Crying from
Her chair of bones,
Lying from her throat and
Spine.
The swine, Little Miss
Taking-her-beatings-with-a-grin-
and-an-'I-miss-you', expecting
You to wait another few years
For another kiss, until she's
Bored with her throne's negating
Iron fist.
Until she's tired of waiting
For this. 'til her
Minute hands stop clapping
The hours on and her feet
Stop pacing the distance
Between our lips.
No, allow you to revise:
Here sits a little girl.
No tricks, lies or power.
Not in this instance,
Not in your lifetime.
Bitch del Mundo -
humanised. Crying from
Her chair of bones,
Lying from her throat and
Spine.
The swine, Little Miss
Taking-her-beatings-with-a-grin-
and-an-'I-miss-you', expecting
You to wait another few years
For another kiss, until she's
Bored with her throne's negating
Iron fist.
Until she's tired of waiting
For this. 'til her
Minute hands stop clapping
The hours on and her feet
Stop pacing the distance
Between our lips.
No, allow you to revise:
Here sits a little girl.
No tricks, lies or power.
Not in this instance,
Not in your lifetime.
Literature
The Rumour of Icarus
Icarus—
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails
Literature
Mayfly
It's a nudge from the Naiad orbiter that brings me fully to my senses, and, instinctively, I find myself checking my systems. Power from her solar panels quickly floods my own circuits, and I flex instruments and senses that feel like they've been dormant for all too long. Which they have, of course.
"Wakey, wakey," the Naiad's saying, as I burn through the reports and telemetry my body's feeding me.
Some of my instruments have iced-up, I realise. But that's a minor concern. Everything else is sound.
"Are we there yet?" I reply.
"We are indeed."
"Mayfly, this is control. " The signal's peppered with static, and I quickly adjust for the D
Literature
Where are regrets kept?
Perhaps in the hollow
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-
That's where your chin
rested all summer long
and that's where the tears
fell in September.
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Comments3
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I'm in awe, and I might be crying a bit. This reminds me of my ex girlfriend... which isn't necessarily a bad thing. In this case, it's a good thing, because of the damn good poem sweeping in the memories. Thank you.