Author: Pisceanesque

"It's not from within that I emerge; it's by emerging, that I am truly within." www.pisceanesque.com

DEAD INSIDE

And here we end
word chef-ing mixed media whispers with
tears fought in unison after the war

paperback cuts and empty pages to line our
tongues: a vastness, like stale bread
and un-gardened fence lines.

Here we end our story where
it never began: with hollowed sights
and enemy trenches and
bonbonnieres filled with armories
and dartboard calendars

– riding shotgun with fries to go –

carrying anthrax and V-shaped saliva
in white pockets of revenge

bleating our way
between dichotomy and conflict, where,
in this absence of hope we are just
zombies in a dollar bin –
half the value promised
and reduced to clear.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2021

ENOUGH, AS I AM

Enough, as I am.
All of me, a star made of silver upon a chest of self-love,
sherriffing whole as I can whilst empty –
lapelled to this shirt like a butterfly with cotton wings.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 03 July 2021

GIVE ME A MOMENT

There is a power in softness, a rough tremor
weeping through every pore without a
scathing sound – the opacity of white noise
calming the soul with feathery pause.

Release it,
tame at last as passing thunder –
its mane, feline, and gentle,
its belly,
turned upward,
eyes closed.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2021

UNBOTTLED

sometimes your
feelings
have people attached to them

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 March 2021

PAPER HEART

paper thin
my wordless heart
mistaken origami art
naked – stark – pristine – unfolded
(chapters lost before they start)
my heaving chest its leaving ark
escaping from the boundless dark
in seas of inkless tears to mark
the day you drowned my
paper heart

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 21 February 2021

COUNTLESS

So many words,
fuelled by everything,
filled with nothing.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 January 2021

TICKING (HAIKU)

Our love,
a time bomb.
Short wick.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 December, 2020

STOIC

There is nothing,
short of absence

flocked as well in chasm as expanse;
deplete of all and nourishment
in trance with echoed dance,
which,
farmed as wealth for plunder
wears a cold and faceless frieze;

as lingering and as formless,
it, bequeathed in whole disease
whilst bounded by detachment
mirrored, stale
and faint,
and seized

as broken hearts denied repair
to leak, unprized, uneased

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 December 2020

CORONA

(mid 16th century: from Latin, ‘wreath, crown’)

This world will descend with us all wearing crowns,
our fear made of chain mail, ensuring we drown –
this royal, rich cluster-fuck the claws of a hound
pandemically torn; endemically bound.

One planet, one people, an abstracted art –
our hope stripped in layers while the illest depart.
Socialised distance the end where we start:
with sanitised hands we are bonded apart.

And yet, it is loneliness more than disease
that will whisper goodbye as we land on our knees,
extinction unmasking the death it will seize
as we slip well away with perpetual ease.

But we cannot forget how to smile in defiance;
we must find a cure and resume an alliance.
Our infinite strength is historically timeless:
let us fearlessly roar in the face of this virus!

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 21 March 2020

EMBERS

As a rule,
I have learnt to fraternise with dreams for gain,
profiting not from indiscretion,
but in the karma sought within such mindful revenge.

Were it possible
to simply matchbox my raw emotion,
the kindling its casket contained
may encourage wild arson –

but perhaps it is less of a burden
to fuck you while I sleep
than to thank you for stoking my fire
while clothed in its flame.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 7 February, 2020

UNKNOWN

She was not brave,
                                        she was necessary.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 October 2019

LAPSE

She recovered her heart
with yesterday sighs

and only her tomorrow smile
knew enough about courage
to forgive the delay

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 October, 2019

PUPPET

Here comes the addiction again, its
whispering lips disguised as passion, the
touch of its hidden hand tap-running
way beyond the weave of my skin
and I
soaked to my core, allow it to wed me:
these buckling knees and paper mâché vows
impressing the addict impaled inside, and
while it listens
eyes necking everything in raised pulse,
it rolls them back with slack-jawed possession
and I move aside
host to a beaten heart that will not commit to stopping
– a puppeteer’d shell in this limbless silence –
running far without a single step
both of us
gambling with a satisfied purr that only I
once combative
now frail
know as loneliness

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 9 October, 2019

I HOPE WE MAKE IT

I have no tolerance for hope. Hope survives
on leftovers and unwilling loss: a soiled casket of
emptiness for every six feet of paragraph
it wades behind. Hope stuffs itself between the words
and the meaning, loudly camouflaged by
gambling and cigarettes, declining to altercate but
lathered by a demand to be seen. It shuns you,
but needs you desirable, a voyeurist: a
lap dancing ghost to keep it current.
            Hope is a pimp
and you whore yourself to keep it primed,
shedding your skin like a puree of missing passports,
onion tears soaking sensibility after raw
sensibility, riding hope faster than your hips can keep up,
because, and after all,
there has to be a better place than this.
Time is just an expanse to harness,
a mount for crossing –
and you must wager everything,
from soul to sex
to grind it hard to a halt.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 November, 2018

SOMETIMES IT TOUCHES

They all write of love.

But true adventure lay between a
frozen boundary of stony words;
between a synchronism
of dishonest friendship
and the cowardice of being alone.

Poetry is animal without tongue or limb
and it bellows wildly in dormant pursuit.
It flowers only to write of
hand grenades that fall like alphabet stars;
pollen, like acid rain.
It flourishes in drama of silent depth
as wound commits to scar.

Sometimes it touches
and perhaps we might call it rape
but all it ever seeks is our forgiveness,
an atoned pardon for not arriving
– for not stampeding us –
any sooner than it had.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 8 May, 2018

WHO ART IN

I might have confessed

were it not for the blanket
of second chances,
assumption oiled at the hinges
by forgiveness –

a permanence arriving
to shuttle me beyond
the gates of my first

Suddenly, it’s stage fright
that trumpets me an usher –

it bleeds me
a carpet call of thin red lines
and I tamper with the packaging
of cause and effect –

two quality seals,
the loose embodiment
of error and apology

I might have confessed

were it not for the bible’d cancer
of my second coming

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 April 2018

PERMISSION TO RISE

Am I brave enough yet to emerge
to escape the regret
to dismantle
forget
to demolish the surge of this
plundering ache
to curb and to conquer
and famish the quaking
– this suffering silence –
this violent breath taking

Am I whole enough yet
to prohibit the shaking
snaking my flesh with
its mandible gaping –
and I
an invertebrate
sensing
it
raking
its
claws
like it’s tilling a field in my pause.

– I AM –

I am soul enough, rousing to roar
but will this awareness
alone be the door to implore me to forfeit
renounce and withdraw from
this former attachment
to lapse while I stall
while in fragments
I catch myself falling
before
I submit to this whiplash of
“worth less” and war

mauling through self–harm
rejecting my core

Perhaps in my rapture my courage will capture
the thrill of detaching
unlatching
resolving
forgiving myself for my lack of evolving
for dressing tornadoes I’d wade in
– dissolving –
while anchored by nought but
the grief I was holding
by swallowing pain
– almost framing each frame –
as the slower the memories
the faster they came and the longer they’d last
it would tighten their hold
and the closer they’d weave they would blindfold
and frighten
and once I was frozen and broken
– eyes widened –
they’d leave

Perhaps fate will gift me a shift
from my history to bask in my victory
and mask my past injuries
and race to new mysteries
and questions, unanswered
and answers, un–asked
but desperately fancied
as I take on this task to have finally been caste
to have grown from my hate
to have flown past a place
where my purpose was faceless
to race to a moment I have hungered to taste
in a time I had dreamt of
instead of erased –

to a piece of the peace I deserve
and a truth to embrace

Will the aching forsake me at last
and the healing re–take me
its journey as vast
as the path it will trace to re–shape me
I ask
and will it profess to regress to
a time I could heave less
bereaved less
and
survive long enough to emerge
at my boldest and best?

The answer is ‘yes’

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 April 2018

IN CROWDS OF PANTOMIME

When it burns, the inferno
turns you into something not
quite finished and not yet
transformed and only
you
know your limits while the world
sits by and waits for its
‘pièce de résistance’ to rise from the
rebirth it gave you
like it had handed you first prize
when you had not yet picked
the numbers.

Your monster wears its party fangs
without asking first:
the current climate
calling for partial nudity and
cluster fucks with strangers who
somehow
drop their unweaned smiles
like crumbs inside the dirty of your lap –
and on and on it goes,
slave
to martyr
to fall upon
deafened eyes and those blind
of learning.

It burns, this puppetry,
in crowds of pantomime,
grappling
for the melting of your heart;
its wax upon the crutches of
every
mistake
you have
chiselled from your chest to bury alone.
It burns, and
you know only how to self-combust and welcome death
for you fear it will one day leave without you –
and where would you run to
without those karmic ties to reign you in
or pull you back
or weave themselves inside to commandeer you.

Beneath this sweltering burst of oppression,
soiled and seeded, and
planted by the ankles in concrete shoes;
beneath the heatwave that rides you like you need an awakening;
beneath you – the hotplate – the hot knife – the hotel
embellished with red-black highways,
and roads of bloodshot weariness
raining from your eyes,

you, in party fangs
and crawling upon dusty knees
sear
all over,
in and out
– Karma’s glove –
for anywhere else
but the squalor of this doomed acceptance.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 09 March, 2018

A GLASS HALF FULL

I am a glass half full of
everything
I feel seems to swallow me
instead of I
it
is not a smooth rush
down my open
mouth
the words that hurt me again
in ways you will never
understand
what you say before
you open your lips to
speak
through your eyes like I am
trying to do in my
silence
comes in thin spaces
between what you say and what I
don’t
know why it needs to be so complicated
when all I feel is
emptiness
fills me like a glass half full of
impotency
rides you easier than I ever could.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 December, 2017

ASTEROID

I expect too much of time
in the little I have left.
I am a dinosaur,
and it,
the pummelling to come.

I wait for its whoosh to confound me;
the bending skywards of my neck;
the brevity of my innocence;
my un-vocal surrender.

A wounded animal,
contorted by such clarity,
confronted
by my lack of ease
as I awkwardly live to expire.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 November, 2017

TREASURERS, WE

There we were
for a moment
awash with candy’d rainbows that shed
spun-sugar silk
to dress this call for change

It’s a pity
this entree tasted like a sundae of fever and fable

Treasurers, we, to nought, now
but wingless poetry;
of letters, silent
and honest
we’d declined to share

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 28 November, 2017

SHOW UP

Show up
with pieces of my name at your chest
and I will promise you
that all its letters
in any order
will write you through this fire
melting both our hearts

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 28 November, 2017

METAMORPHOSIS

punishment
in the language of hope
scorching its way with splintered paddles
down to the roughs of my hungry feet
and teaching me
equally
of steadfastness and self-love
through the blanketing challenges of escape

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 28 November, 2017

NO EXIT

I fight rough
– healing you –
to turn truth
into your new home

Sharp edges
for the smoky silence
of a rear-view mirror

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 28 November, 2017

TASTE

I breathe you in
— surrender —
and my lungs fill with
flavours unknown
but for the soft sounds
I make of them
as they arrive

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 28 November, 2017

SELF-INFLICTION

I scoop this body from its mind, and
on the cusp of extinction, it wails:
insane, lost, romanticising surrender.
Perhaps, my arm the mast, this tissue the flag,
perhaps at last I will tire of this terrorism
and sign on again
for a new amendment of love.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

RELINQUISH

By and by,
the past, it passes –
date–raping purpose
through peering glasses:
pregnant pauses never lasting

Every vanished thrill
restarting futures
on a windowed sill,
shadows casting mimes
in stills
as long will live the passion
– hungry –
fuelling moments full to brim

Just as quick, another morning
dawning – time to pass
and kill; murder
just another constant,
one more loss on
sudden whim as
whereupon man solders on
to play the night another song
for day by day we carry on
to pass another past
along.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

SMALL

I am the starved sanctuary for unformed words and
by I pass the feverish wind that recipes its way
beyond my teeth to mix another spoon of
awkward with a sifted pound of nervous laughter,
folding and kneading a cavernous desire
that piecemeals its softened voice
into any semblance of oral freedom
my selfishly shy lips will dare untangle.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

THIS POETRY LAY

My poetry lay hungry,
over-indulged on missing vocals
and absent sound,
under-fed from swallowed emotion
and buried tears –
throat-lumping in the name of opinion
better kept to shadowy under-jaws
and burbling stomach acid;
cocooning noisily with butterflies
of rage whose lead-heavy wings
and straight jacket veins
pin themselves to freedom
with only my dry throat
a means to escape.

My poetry lay hungry
while I feed on its promise
to blanket my attempt
at making it known.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

FUTILE

I tire of love and terrorism; the
way my broken heart lay claim
to territory unknown before; the
way the softness of these blankets fall
like bombs in your wake; the
way the hunger for calm strikes and
starves and
feeds in rations; the
way this post trauma stands guard
at closed eyes and
changes sentry as I awaken;
the way it loops itself about my mushroom cloud, and
belts its breath on my cheek. I
tire of scratching at hope like
hope is a trivial blush at another chance. I
grow weary of this kamikaze daze,
my eyes, the fluorescence of every wound un-bared. I
ignite from within, limp and lost
from so much exploding without.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 July, 2017