Newest Deviations
Plagued by these small thingsI am plagued by these small things,Plagued by these small things
moving through me on their way to the ultimate,
leaving trails of muck, slime in the hedges.
They burrow and chew me as if I were the good earth,
and prick their spines into me for balance.
I turn and turn, like a body in space,
keeping no focus on the Universe,
and the small things anchor each other,
camaraderie of the tunnels.
And they will not be smoked out
or shaken out
or wheedled out with nettles and sticks,
and I groan to the stars in the night.
This is I.
These small things,
these parasitic dream
by ~agrat-bat-mahlah
Freak ShowFreak ShowFreak Show
Two brothers sleep, one filth, one clean, In a feather bed on a magazine. We stare as though this wildlife Has never before been seen. The ringmaster in silk and soot Treads their mem’ries underfoot And prods their tender, brazen stays, And rusts them at the root. The stands cheer and the brothers sleep, Too hurt to wake, too proud to weep, And the stickers glint on their flawless skin In their feathered fishbowl keep. Perverted crowds applaud the deed, Sweat and skin of brothers freed. We justify invented truth That better fills
by ~agrat-bat-mahlah
BlessedBlessedBlessed
I am baptized in a fountain of blood,
in the glow of black lights.
It rushes me, calls to my blood,
sandwiches my skin between angry oceans.
The photographer blesses me,
whispering my five-letter aliases,
and lights up.
A snake coils around the spigot,
rusted, like me,
and seeks my tongue in blind passion.
I stand in the fountain,
my hair a dark mat,
the copper perfume rising to meet me,
naked, and filthy, and alive.
by ~agrat-bat-mahlah
-7-7-7-
Once again, I am empty, Stuffed in my closet, locked inside. Moth-eaten memories stare at me, Challenging me to try and hide. I am small again. I am seven. I am curled up in the dark, Waiting to be released again, Searching my chest for a heart. I am overlooked, though I understand. No one misses my footprints. They are kicked over in the sand, No proof that I ever went. Once again, my tears are silent. Once again, they flow like wine. I am seven once more, My closed closet door…
And there’s no growing up this time.
by ~agrat-bat-mahlah
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