Minx

outrunning karma

[metamorphesque]

“Why, Milena, do you write about our common future which will never be, or is that why you write about it?”

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[weltenwellen]

Fernando Valverde, tr. by Carolyn Forché, from “Antonio Machado Listens to the Shadows of the Sunset in Long Island“

[childofstarlight]

the sky hurled mean rain, invading cracking homes.

it was cold, but you were laughing, extraordinarly; in your chilling comfort.

the scent of mould scraping distasteful walls jabbed at my my nose, foul mannered, it aroused an odious disgust.

the fire would not stay put, straying to the pit of your stomach, burning loudly.

human lust is never quiet.

the embers favoured such vulnerability over the silent, predictable corpse of a tree.

dusty blankets and stained pillowcases,

you kissed me for a moment, it felt like a prolonged eternity.

boredom irked me, eyes scowled at the mocking window.

i seethed with selfish determination, to see your sure demeanour decline with pleasure.

a faulty disguise, the person too unsure to not succumb to my venturing fingers, exploring unspeakable territory.

sang to me you did

surrendering yourself to the spell, the demon, of unruly desire.

[childofstarlight]

weeping waters sob

in my stiff arms, redolent of a time

where i did not really know where i stood

before god, sin churned within my soul

i flailed in the water

i could not tell if i was crying

or if it was just the waves i tripped upon

that sneered in my face

mockingly, but still

i envied their purity

symbolically speaking

the salt? hardly mattered- easy to overlook

but i was just salt

and that was quite the problem

the fire i see, also familiar

irony. it is all that i do not want to be

father. rage. the neglecting adolescence

the absence. where were you?

i now grimace, although that time is so distant.

my anger, my grief, does not belong to me. but her, wonky-toothed curly haired sweet baby child.

the wind does not interrogate me, the wind acknowledges me. acceptingly. aware of how it is one and i am one, separately.

it does not question, nor answer. that is just how it is meant to be

perhaps i have many a question to ask, but it is a mutual, silent agreement

i guess that i am content with that..

but do i really know where i stand now?

perhaps i am still the child cracking within the maddening sea of time

or the burning little superstar. a byproduct heady lust- first, 'love' (in naively simple terms by a lovestruck lonely lady) courtesy of Asmodeus. I bow triumphantly.

i drown in my bedsheets.

unstable, uncomfortable, but i do not move. i almost forget to breathe.

[childofstarlight]

my stomach churns within churches

the cross scowls at me

with hostility and suspicion

the sly reptile

which callously i am.

brandished steel for teeth

murdering my screaming scales

and that which i bleed,

barely blood

is an apology to man

for my existence.

i am sorry.

i am sorry.

i am sorry.

[childofstarlight]

i devour the mourning lamb. grief tender between roaring teeth. it sings with terror, bleating a despairingly sombre sonata. i meet it with drunken lulling, stumbling a quiet symphony across bloodied wool and skin. as my eyes stare down at the wicked sight before me i am met with sobering excitement, akin to something devilish, cynical. my claws grip the weeping skeleton, lonely without its flesh. i can not feel sorry for it, for its tongue stifled heretical prayers into the burning ground. i decided to play a god, of sorts. responding diligently, kindly, disposing of it’s pitiful demons, in a roundabout way. but what is this? i recoil in dismay. its heart reeks like mine, its eyes know me, are me. the water chokes a terrible reflection. it tremors, loudly, fearfully: ‘what have you done?’ i, a carcass, barely body, bone. a bloody husk. all that remains is my head. that bleating, despairing, wooly head. that visceral grief. bleeding. what have i done?

[childofstarlight]

the spider creeps, timidly

and huddles into the corner

of your wall, because it is cold.

you shriek in utter terror, at

the little eight legged critter invading

your room.

mercilessly, you wrench it from

its refuge, and use little strength

to crush it within your palms.

the little spider thinks to itself

as it feels the presence of your

skin:

‘i am scared, but it is warm.’