• This is an older poem writen in my high school years, but there are some salvagable moments here. Check it out...

maleficent

Ye        who make a pretty dream

bemuse, beguile        and do what you will.

O, indeed        i do

call upon the sweetness of your skin

to make me drunk as brandy-wine and absinthe

on a lazy summer day.

sweet, sweet and sweeter still

is the slip of your pity---

eyes large;        eyes sunken.

You say: "One drop of blood quickens the soul

two souls entwined, in turn, makes thread;

thread stitches wounds,

wounds heal into scars,

scars

are the ways we remember . . ."

scars are what we remember.





So, i place the knives deep down in the dirt,

blade-side up       of course,        to cut---

like a victory garden

in our back yard

all ready for your abuse.

and





you swagger like Jesus

over rows of swiss-armies       without a visible bleeding orifice

or so much as a      tear.

And you beg of me to follow        from the other side you call.

you beg me     beg me, follow---

so i must.





i see in your eyes then        a flitter of doubt,

a surge of remorse . . . as i take my first steps.

i see then        in your eyes       a hint of the savage

and a smirk on your mouth, on your lips

---your red lips

your sweet sadistic lips

your malificent . . . lips---

that i'm not supposed to see.





and . . .
i. . .
drag       my body      from

first slice, to last breath

---my blood feeding        scores, legions     and battalions

of hungry baby angels---

just to touch your face again

and kneel at your feet

and lick the crust from your inner thigh . . .





Ye, who make a pretty dream

and smoke all my dignity.

i see it trickle,

as in     irony,     fore'er onto dust.

you hold me,         hold me

in your arms,

(making sure to avoid the blood that drenches me)

and whisper in my wind-chapped ears





"again,
(tomorrow) . . . again."

• Chy Ryan Spain

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