Five F's

1:53

 

Night envelops me like an eggshell.  I wear her cloak, pitch-black blue laden with stars.  Stars poking me through her fabric, stars telling me what to do.  Their points puncture my skin; their rays rob me of my vision, cause me to stumble backwards, forwards, tripping side to side.  The eggshell broken.  I crash into hard soil, feel my teeth break as my face hits the ground.  Le goût du sang* overpowers my tastebuds, causing me to wonder how such a metallic taste could possibly be human.  Such a cold taste; such a warm liquid.  We have to decide what in the blood we identify with: the properties of metal or the properties of heat.  Eggshells only last for so long, and soon the world will demand you to choose.

 

*le goût du sang – French – “the taste of blood”

 

Author’s Note: It’s dark outside; quite a lovely colour the sky is tonight.  Or this morning.  Anyway, just a simple free verse piece pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi˚.  It’s experimental.  

 

I like using French inserts, especially when talking about blood.  “Sang” isn’t as heavy or weighty of a word as “blood”, but rather it is more of the nature of blood I wanted to portray here: slick, flowing, almost like a sly character in a spy movie, something not heavy but (thick) liquid and waiting to change.  Sometimes your own language isn’t adequate to convey what you mean; anyone else agree?

 

˚pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi – French – “for my enjoyment, and your enjoyment, too”

Disappear

The occasional wish

To slide into skin

Soft and dark

Different from your own

To feel coarse dirt

On your soles

And harsh sun

On your back

As you pick plump grapes

Off their homes on the vine

Watch the fruits

Age

The aroma pungent

Piercing your olfactory membrane

Squishy sticky sweet pearls

Popping under your soles

Or maybe

You weren’t as lucky

Your money not good enough

To fly off to a vineyard

So you lay on the filthy mattress

And pump!

Up and down, your pelvis

Thrusting

Oh –!

Deep groans

From your throat

Or his throat

(Or even hers)

You learn to enjoy

Selling your pink bouquet

To dirty gardeners

It’s casual sex

Just with a pay

You chose this route

Chose to slip into this thin,

Tight, sore skin

Like you were sliding on a party dress

You needed to escape

To peel off your old face

Disgusting and cheap

In a few more men

You will have your ticket

You’ll be writing in European tongues

Wishing

For your chance to direct the stars

As you thought you could in your youth

If

The coppers don’t catch you first

Author’s Note: Odd to “introduce” myself with an escapist poem, but maybe it will tell you about me by telling you who I am not.  I remember the day I wrote this poem, a day filled with dread due to a stupid mistake – a costume was miscatalogued and thought to be missing, meaning if we didn’t find it our report cards (or, in my case, diploma) would be held.  Before the error was rectified, my worry seeped through my pen and formed this poem.

Constructive criticism appreciated!