Month: August 2015

THE JAILED FREEDOM OF WRITING

 

Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed; a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while

I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered;
blank, un-whole, alone
and undefended.
My belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and

expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours;
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression
sought to pillage mind
and spill from core.

Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more;
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within.
Never one to coat my words
too thin, too dry, too weak,
it seems (by definition) I resist
to drown (at best) or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
in unblinking frozen speech,
but

the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,

this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitous
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –
through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 August, 2015

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

 

This night carries me,
blinded,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I
flat,
and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
longing,
for another day; but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans,
instead,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
asleep awake, to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink,
like a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
walking,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
here, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
this
bottomless pit of expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 August, 2015

MOTHER AND WIFE

 

Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished
of reason but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense
and, thus, absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead,
so depend on their
wafer-thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms,
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams

Bear witness

as I birth these farmers of filth
as they strangle the earth
while I patiently wade in
the knee-high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves
where the no-longer-babes
– the sailors and cowards
and bastards that dribble –
are caught in a wave
of stone and soil ripple,
– are anchored and drowned –
without sight, nor intent,
but the passage of life
for a time
– once less lived –
due the freedom
I selflessly lost
but to generously
give

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight;
yet, still, I exist, swept aside,
and, despite.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 August, 2015