heaven in madness

i thought i’d found heaven in madness

and fashioned godliness out of my own

ashes.

perhaps i knew, then, that this was merely the limitations of a mind made warped and wild;
though they praise the poets for dying
and saints are made from gas-laden corpses
i am no plath. i am no woman bound to die by the noose of my own hands.
may i be mad, mad, and live.
i will love my madness. some day, it may be all i have. 

– t.bennett

poem: and in memory, i leave you

command:

 

put your hands around the memory of

that pain. squeeze, until it darkens to

some violent shade of violet, black, and blue.

 

kill the thoughts of those who gutted you.your stitches are clean. heal, for you are born again; rest – you have walked the shadowed halls of death

and emerged draped in victory.

be still, be safe. they cannot touch you from their graves.

poem: rewind

i am eighteen and sweetened by the honey

of an unlived future. i ripen with the unfolding of these years; look back

on the bow legged girl of 12. anxious to be 15, worrisome over nothing hips and a heavy chest and a ten year old who thinks of nothing but

books, and the promise of summer.  

poem: a universe in your blood

i laid my head upon your brittle chest, seeking the sound of your heart

and heard rattling chains, wailing women drowning their sorrows in black rivers;

saw in my mind’s eye the twisting valleys and hidden copses,

unborn ghosts growing in the walls of your bedchamber

and loved you more for the world you carried behind your aching ribs.

poem: heaven burner

sing to me the song of ages

show me the golden cages housing broken birds

kept for show, and the needling reminder of victory and of truth –

that we stepped on the backs of the weak and needy,

reached heaven’s gates and dipped our toes into the nothingness behind them.

angels died for our hunger, gods

dug their own graves and ripened our fruits with their blood;

we made heaven bow to our command

flew into the heart of the sun and consumed stars

sated greed with gold and trinkets and i yearn for more. for wonder and fame and now

we have emptied the bowels of the afterlife, grown fat on its meaty gristle and i hunger, now. feed me another song, a tale of goodness

i shall never know.

poem: rot and perfume

on the edge of heartbreak i open up

steel veins and bleed ochre; mercury, frankincense and

perfumed dishonesty.

you reek of the darkness and i taste it, in my lung-flesh, and bitten tongue tip.

poem: angel-hearted

angel hearted,

golden tongued mistress whose lies spread pleasure on the senses and

the butter of sin, cloying, close, in my very blood and self.

 

to you I am devoted and it is you I denounce

a sliver of your goodness has ruined me. all else is silver, and grey.

wicked, wild, my lover – i sink into your light and ample glory.

poem : here lies my lioness heart

the prettiest thing about me is the way

i turn almost to dust, at the slightest touch;

i am undone and

the ghost of me weeps for the weakness of a heart so soft,

so bruised.

i’ll tell you that once, i was warrior and lioness

i smiled and the blood of those who would pity me glistened

between my tombstone teeth.

soft, now, i am, in the places i must be.

still

do not tread where my lion sleeps –

she stirs at the slightest bruising of this soft and brittle heart.

poem : invitation

you sent hell-hounds to the doors of my body and

spread legged, my mouth agape in a crooked laugh, i said,

“i’ve seen worse. i’ve tasted the darkest water and drank curses, bitter blood, rolled jealousy around the meat of my tongue and i have known, intimately

the tart misery of a night walking near-empty roads, side stepping death as it speeds

towards my body

 

and felt nothing.

 

do your worst. do your most deadly and bastard deeds.

i am less human

than the beasts at my door.”

poem: heart song

write me something dark, damned, beautiful;

unwind flesh and on heartstrings,

play songs of wickedness,

by your tongue, make me new and

confess, from your deepest skin

the quivering truths of years long past.