The Woman
A poem I wrote a while back:
"Seductive and terrifying," they call her. But they don't know the half of it... Desire and dread have turned me into the walking dead. Each synapse fires red and black, Woven with bloody stockings and torn lingerie, Painting over reason with lipstick So dark, it cannot be imagined, or even named. Smoky daggers of green and gray Shoot into me with hot menace, and then a smile, Daring me to sacrifice my every mangled pawn Into the wild path of her vampiric queen And be devoured one by one, at last. I grasp at words and meanings In confused, broken jumbles Lacking form and soaking in panicked lust, While the moon grows fatter and hungrier, Exposing insatiable fangs that Multiply the darkness in me a thousandfold, And yet I cannot deny it in the pale moonlight. It exists, but never like this. I'm taken over And find no respite, save for the myriad Tombstones marked with someone else's name. Dead in my tracks, but quite alive this moment, Her delicate hands snake around my neck, Pumping me full of tortured sex And legs and breasts and foreign whispers As art and life intermingle Again, and again, and again! She speaks my language at times, And perhaps even makes sense, Until her cryptic speech becomes too soft For my dumb ears, grown hard from hearing. I grow ever more silent To mask the increasing decibel of my insanity Which waxes and wanes with the moon That laughs each night at my very existence. I am the plaything of bumps in the night, Which reveal themselves suddenly and momentarily, As I feverishly muffle the beating of my own heart With heavy fabrics and grass and dirt and my own fucking hands Tightly clutching my chest so no spirit knows That blood runs through these veins. Impossibly gorgeous and incomprehensibly vast. Seductive and terrifying, this life is.
"Seductive and terrifying," they call her. But they don't know the half of it... Desire and dread have turned me into the walking dead. Each synapse fires red and black, Woven with bloody stockings and torn lingerie, Painting over reason with lipstick So dark, it cannot be imagined, or even named. Smoky daggers of green and gray Shoot into me with hot menace, and then a smile, Daring me to sacrifice my every mangled pawn Into the wild path of her vampiric queen And be devoured one by one, at last. I grasp at words and meanings In confused, broken jumbles Lacking form and soaking in panicked lust, While the moon grows fatter and hungrier, Exposing insatiable fangs that Multiply the darkness in me a thousandfold, And yet I cannot deny it in the pale moonlight. It exists, but never like this. I'm taken over And find no respite, save for the myriad Tombstones marked with someone else's name. Dead in my tracks, but quite alive this moment, Her delicate hands snake around my neck, Pumping me full of tortured sex And legs and breasts and foreign whispers As art and life intermingle Again, and again, and again! She speaks my language at times, And perhaps even makes sense, Until her cryptic speech becomes too soft For my dumb ears, grown hard from hearing. I grow ever more silent To mask the increasing decibel of my insanity Which waxes and wanes with the moon That laughs each night at my very existence. I am the plaything of bumps in the night, Which reveal themselves suddenly and momentarily, As I feverishly muffle the beating of my own heart With heavy fabrics and grass and dirt and my own fucking hands Tightly clutching my chest so no spirit knows That blood runs through these veins. Impossibly gorgeous and incomprehensibly vast. Seductive and terrifying, this life is.
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