poem: nephilim pt. iii

raucous birdsong slicks your throat. you’re the least human lover
i have ever taken into the grove of my heart; immortality stains our tongues (wicked gift) in ochre

and scarlet.
pleasure is sweet. i chase candied awakenings
suck them from your fingertips
and my moans are the nonsense gurgles of the river-girls you lead to sin by their hands and a handful of their hair.

wearied voices clamour

to protect discarded honour and i look over your shoulder at their weeping mouths and dismal words and between a moan and a plea i whisper:

this is how you rise / when there’s no coming back from the fall / in the arms of the lover the good book foretold

t. bennett ; @raggedhearts


poem: valentine’s mirror

you break my heart 

and i turn you into a rhythm

footsteps on an empty page, 

echoing words, absent of

your tongue, falling from memory to fingertip

to you – readers, 

absent audience, hear my story – i carried new love on my back

and broke as it snapped 

cracking down onto my bird-bone spine;

turned them into art, a tapestry

on the wall of my head-house.

not a masterpiece, 

but a stepping stone

to becoming the patron saint to the lost and lovely hordes of the broken hearted.

– t. bennett 

poem: lovebird

​give me a love

that shakes the stars and rattles bullets in their chambers and 

makes children out of the hardened grown-ups. 

give me a love 

that’ll melt my bones to rose-tinted mush

and help me remember i was enough

before their mouth made a playground of mine.
t. bennett

poem: carpenter

​i am dripping and draining

the vestiges of your words. i sluice the shadow of your fingertips

from my thighs and scrub at your lip-mark

where it shines, red as dawn, on my collarbone.

my body is the crime scene. my body is walking evidence of mummy issues,

and broken promises. 

my body awakens, keening at the ache of my back after 90 minutes in the therapist’s chair. 

my body creaks

and cracks and, like the gap between my childish teeth,

the space between who i was and i who i am meant to be is too small to be seen in a photograph; large enough, still, for me to be shy of it in public.

i carve myself a new body

out of the ashes of the old. this will be a house of steel and silk, blood frozen over the splinters of the past. it will be everything and you will not be there 

to take a piece of my masterpiece for your collection of shattered people.

t. bennett

poem: of humanity, and butterflies.

​a proposal: the most beautiful moment on earth

is the rebirth of the butterfly. it lives, loves, and dies in a summer. it dances on the heads of flowers and drinks into the night time and stumbles into death on paper wings.

a fact: we are not butterflies, though some of us long to be.

a thought: we are born screaming, eyes screwed up against the light, torn from a warm, watery cocoon, blood in our mouths, reeking of new life.
woe’re born hungry and wanting, instinct driving us to feed blind. the only thing we have in common with a butterfly is our frailty and 

take that aside, you’ll see – where the butterfly is a whisper, we are a storm,a hurricane of needles, bundled beneath and between bone and skin.

t. bennett