Old Poems and dusty words.

Last week I was digging around in a box of junk and happened on a notebook full of poems and words. I have no recollection of writing any of the things in this notebook. I have no idea when I might have written any of these things. I will say it was within the last 6 years because prior to that I did not use this sort of notepad.

Most of the poems I can’t read my handwriting so I can’t transcribe them but here are a few.

After so many shady summers
I still feel suspect.
Wrung out and empty.
This is the liminal aspect
of my absurd ego.
~

I wanted to be hard
-aloof and beautiful.
Sturdy, implacable steel
with tart lips.
I wanted to leave you
bruised and spent.
Staggered.
Silent.
~
My secrets will eat themselves.
Devour each other
Along with my tender heart.
Until I am little but glass.
~
My sight is broken-
perfect mosaic that hides
my secrets odd heart.

The needle did not
penetrate my virgin skin.
But I paid- I paid.

He laments for me
silent tears and ghostly touch
In death he feels all.
~
Take your time
Tread slowly over
the dessicated terrain
This is no nature walk.
We- are going to war.
~
I want to be Inanna.
Blessing the solemn with
the joy of my glorious cunt.
I want to birth sun and moon
earth and stars.
Contain all the answers to the great mysteries.
Covet those secrets tight between my thighs.
I want them all to sing in praise of my cunt.
I want to rule the world with wetness and grace.
~
If my mania can’t be forgiven
Please remember in this moment
Ozone in my mouth and lightening between my teeth.
Before I fall like Icarus-
flaming and insane.
I will know what is sacred.
~
There is murder on my tongue.
Vengeance- heat lightening in my fingers.
Yes these eyes are calm and smooth.
Glass.
No one will know my rage.
Slowly burning.
I will lay in wait.
Smile and sweetness.,
Until you are blind as you are dumb.
~

She sings in summer
Sun kissed gleaming lusty salt sweet.
She is joy
But she is not me.
~
I am greedy
Groaning gaping avarice
insatiable with my mouth wide open
screaming.
Atavistic lust.
Until there is nothing left
to devour.
~
If I feed my roses blood, will they bloom red hot and salty to perfume my garden with murder?

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