Author: Pisceanesque

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

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

if it were 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

TO KNOW OF SHEEP IS TO REJECT THE SHEPHERD

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.

And 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 chiseled from your chest
to bury alone. It burns, and
you know only how to self-combust and welcome Karma
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 I 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 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,
fueling 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 un-formed 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
to make 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

THE INVOLUNTARINESS OF LIFE

O, the involuntariness of life.
I did not ask for any of this. I
was not sinned from my mother’s womb to strife
between such small moments of bliss.

I cannot canter, all horsely and proud,
made to garden the fruits of my labour.
My soul was born to yearn loud, not
sink to another’s cold favour.

God willing, by the end of my days
I will leave achievements like letters –
small mercies for the suffering of babes
to learn how to generation better.

Peace comes at this fair price –
not without effort, or calling; but
through silent lessons, taught to them twice –
elders way showing before falling.

And so, to these children of time:
mistakes beget paths, straight and narrow.
I was birthed as Creator of mine
to lead such a flight like a sparrow.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 July, 2017

ORIGAMI

Your lies are like Origami –
they all start from the same
     shape
but take many
     forms

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

SIGHTED

Should you
perhaps blindly
show an interest
this
errantly battering storm within
may cease its embryonic dance
and betroth itself
finally
in your capture

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

WHAT REMAINS

What remains of our more recent differences, those
saturated words fallen from the lacy cuffs of our noble tongues; the
sound-filled garments and raspy lingerie custom fit
for implication and blame – what remains

but the pungency of battered verdicts, the jesters
of white noise and spicy hung detachment, the
midnight winds of halitosis fouling casted spells:
an alphabetic bouquet of gambled persecution,
the weight of which we transport as we fade away…

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

THE RISK

the danger of
falling in love
is
being thrown
selfishly
out of it

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

AFTER LOSS

There comes a time when
moving forward
is a monumental act
of self-preservation;
walking away,
a feat of rediscovery;
and letting go,
the key to finding true purpose.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

WHIP

You are my story
and I escape within these pages
of your unmapped strength
through pauses
and the violence
that collects each letter;
another lash I want
and need
but don’t deserve.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

DIVERSION

Sometimes I lose myself in you
whilst wondering
how I ever survived
without your distraction

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

CONFUSING GREY

It is unlikely as you reminisce,
that I,
white as your black is dark,
appear largely unobstructed
in your mind
– stark, as my naked is bare –
a ripening contrast of shadows
raining over my image;
and from where I stand I feel
the wetness
as it pours upon my hair.

Muddied storms rise between us
– a collage of painted quicksand
from my toes to my lungs –
my attention taken from ‘escape’
to ‘survive another night’
for another day;
running at a loss from your black
with my concrete feet
to my canvas of white
from the pain of this confusing grey.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 June, 2017

REPOSE

I am glad these butterflies my
silent stomach houses feel more
at home knowing you will
never return than when they
were hoping you might.

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

JUNE

Apparently, I died yesterday, but my
last breath was somewhere between March and April
– it just took you another 3 months to decide
that you are the vastness of space
and I am the lungs that are empty without you

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

PILLAGE (HAIKU)

Take anything, but.
Kill every emotion, twice;
just leave me my heart.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 May, 2017

NON-SENSICAL (HAIKU)

Alphabet pain, this.
Loops, lines, and curls without form:
writer’s block puzzles.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 May, 2017