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Tag: Creative Writing
To The Catholic Brexiteer
I am so sorry.
Genuinely.
From the bottom of my mixed up,
mixed race,
part white,
part polluted heart,
I am so,
so sorry.
I have stolen a white man.
Several, actually,
and some white women too,
I know that they belong to you,
but you know us “darkies”,
(although, as a mixed person, I’m sort of in the middle,
lightly toasted,
if you will),
we are just predisposed to crime,
and unfortunately,
my mother’s lily white,
innocent DNA was just not enough,
to overcome my emotional kleptomania,
and so I stole them,
pure white British hearts,
taken into my ethnic lair,
and probably used in some dark and demented foreign ritual,
because you know what us people are like.
I am so sorry,
to have caused you such distress,
as I destroyed the master race.
Thoughts and prayers.
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New Visual Poem – Projection
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Good Morning, Starlight
Good morning, Starlight.
I am awake,
encased in your embrace.
My beauty is stained with blood,
resting on your chest,
a tapestry of scratches,
I am proud to have sewn.
It has been six hours,
since we saw our subject.
I purr your name,
an eager kitten,
sleepily,
softly padding after you,
to the car,
to see our latest adventure,
in the frightened, febrile flesh.
Ah, yes.
He sleeps so sweetly,
his glassy eyes gaze,
burning a hole through the map of hair
and splatter stains,
that tell a story,
on the carpet of your car trunk.
Gold and red,
go so well,
underneath the morning sun,
that illuminates what we did,
when the moon came to visit.
As the cold air eats away at us,
I lay,
playful,
in his tomb,
as you wrestle with your guilt,
and his corpse,
in low, lazy grass.
Chainsaw changing the scene,
as I dream of tonight’s adventure.
Moonlight.
Music.
Murder.
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Whoops, I Married A Capricorn
Five thirty,
at the mercy of approaching sunlight,
and the angry, unwelcome alarm,
I am happy,
held in heaven,
an anxious angel,
counting seconds,
sequences,
silences and small noises,
moving at the command of your rising and falling chest.
I dance to your breath,
subdued but lively,
resting and restless,
holding on,
with fevered fingertips,
to every second of waking up with you.
Our mornings are righteous.
We are on the right side of the bed,
I join your tattoos,
touching each part of your arms that I can reach,
with closed, cautious eyes,
pretending a little longer,
that I am softly sleeping,
in high, holy, happy heaven.
You are sound asleep,
sometimes,
in every respect,
not seeing the magic you make,
or the way you have haunted me,
my whole life,
an out of reach illusion,
that my mornings were missing.
Sometimes,
you are not a mortal,
but a sparkling soul,
sleeping all around me,
seeping inside my mind,
my nerves,
my veins,
and a million medical terms,
that I cannot name,
and I am changed.
I wake up,
renewed,
clean and pure,
tested but true,
waking up,
at last,
with you,
in high, holy, happy heaven.
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