I only feel alive in barren lands,
Where nothing else can take responsibility for my heartbeat.
Hot, sticky fields of tall grass, and
Tiny wild flowers like toys in a snake playground.
Honey hair in braids, and
Cottage smelling milk.
Here I am a virgin forever.
But virginity is lonely,
As barren lands, snakes, cottages, and pledges of integrity often are.
The Birds and the Bees by HectateNemesis, literature
Literature
The Birds and the Bees
Hot weather has come.
Summer has come!
And the lovely little lovelies unfasten their sepals.
Their petals spring forth in bloom,
swelling and flushing with color,
engorged with eager expectancy,
even smiling at the moon.
The bee boys gather, ready to lather
in pollen.
Rigid with lust,
they fly from their husks,
their honey-cave prisons,
their walls tacked with the sticky sweet memory
of last summer's infidelity.
They hover and buzz between the blushing flora,
examining, imagining, but not conspiring.
They sting in solitude;
every yellow-black fellow to his own,
and to each: all.
Perfect gentlemen.
There is no need for
I used to be unique.
Kool-Aid hair dye and all.
Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls.
I swore at teachers.
I drank vodka behind the bleachers.
I puked at football games on cheerleaders.
I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs.
I used to wear my shirt undone.
I used to have fun.
Now I own a 6 room house,
a 4 door car,
a water-dispensing fridge,
bell jars.
Also, religion,
caffeine addiction,
magazine subscriptions,
diazepam prescriptions,
goldfish.
900 pairs of shoes
PVA glue
a self-inflicted curfew
sexually transmitted virtue
and many, many cats.
All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-
If my ceiling were a two-way mirror
You would see a tangle of limbs and mouths
of beer, some mine,
Atop the shrine you built for me.
You would see me
Smiling tightly
Moaning politely
Under a blind black sky
Although quiet inside, counting sheep, backwards.
Over and under and under, but breathing,
Hunting and seeking, but mostly just teething
Fired by a lake of dizzy barbiturates.
Your absence instigates me to recriminate.
I set fire to Magnolia State and become a patch of real estate.
For every one of those wiry claws there is one set of ecstatic applause.
And I live to please.
Because at least on my knees
There are hands in
It all can happen in the hour
Between the night and day:
The dead world is brought to life
As spring blisters awake.
The Earth inhales, its breath a surge
Through pores of ragged ice,
The claws of winter thaw and loose,
Surrender their device.
Crystal thrones melt with the bones
Of kingdoms spoiled by doom,
Now ivy weaves itself around
Like dressings on a wound.
The sleepy Phlox also ascends,
Now feels it has begun,
Breaks through the gauzy sheets of snow,
Climbs sun-drunk to the sun.
Within an instant all the world
Is changed from grey to green.
Though soon is red and brown again;
As it has always been.
And weeping willow
I did spend time
throwing my body over couches,
sighing deep from the belly
to sad music and murky martinis.
I was so heavy
I would crash land
at the bottom of long-necked bottles with
red stained lips.
But I have finished that crying now.
I'm standing, whole, in heels, somehow.
Calloused and glittering.
Living.
Thing.
And I'm feeling rather cat-like down here off the wing.
Devils have romanced angels since the beginning of time,
charmed them stark raving naked in organized crime,
and they've all gone tumbling down, skirts in the air,
into forests of red fingernails, lost and impaired.
I met some new friends there.
And in
You will wake up in a purple dress with one stiletto dangling off the bed.
The hangover is not quite as guilty without the boxers on the floor.
The custom is to wake up earlier than boxer boy
or brief, (depending on the club, more or less) and to venture to the kitchen.
You dont mean to wake up so early, but somehow you cannot stop thinking,
planning your morning greeting (It gets easier with each visitor), deciding what more y
On saltine beaches, the leaches wriggle,
and the seagulls shriek through gum-stuck beaks.
3 whales beached over night.
In the feverheat of day, flies pick at their barnacles:
An exotic delicacy
for the shit-eaters.
Up the Skirt of a Mushroom by HectateNemesis, literature
Literature
Up the Skirt of a Mushroom
There is a hunger in my guts
for things far too back in time
to grasp,
gyrate against and say I love you I love you over it like a watering can
to sunglass-eyed daisies.
Instead I will tread
(showing lots of leg)
in lukewarm fields
of screw-eyed susans
and try to work up an appetite.