Palm me Off

hashish-method-1

spit polish the metal
a gleaming clip where the hand
rises, meeting the face in the place
where breath is deeply drawn in –
held until dawn breaks eternity,
celadon dream-skin fluttering haze
behind the eyes
– roaches nesting –
never mind salvaging the remains
of this day or most others,
so scant it’s clad in lingerie lace
body less ghost
clasping pain under the weight
I sag
– a slag heap of glittering needles and dyes
drip injected then scanned,
yeah, you read between whatever lines
standing outside looking in –
but I’m unabashed in my trenchancy
as caustic as the acrid taste
of smoke swallowed,
the final drag leaves you nervous
as I split the lips and exhale
a bright lemon neon vacancy drifting in my eyes
– the roaches are stirring –
you cough on the smell of offal blistering
in the sun
the stench heated, permeating your wordless
accusations, mutating decomposition
you wear your fear like royal robes
empiric denial
but I can only laugh a pale green glaze,
a yellow smile
the rich deep aroma thick about the waist
coating my tongue
– my saviour,
the only grace released
in a backlit sun-stretch halo
ringing my head
as you trip in your bidding
trying to back away from me
feral cat rubbing figure eights around
your legs, bending the measures of time,
denying you your mind’s purpose
I spark life from this pitch dark tar
as the roaches scrape themselves free

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

image source: unknown
mlmm prompt: wordle#165

1. Shine
2. Clip
3. Abash (v) to destroy the self-confidence, poise, or self-possession of; disconcert;make ashamed or embarrassed
4. Read
5. Salvage
6. Celadon (n.) a pale grey-green, any of several Chinese porcelains having a translucent, pale green glaze
7. Permeate
8. Sag
9. Nervous
10. Vacant
11. Offal: the parts of the animal that are considered inedible, viscera, rubbish
12. Trenchancy (adj.) incisive or keen, as language or a person; caustic; cutting; vigorous; effective; energetic

By What Name Are You Known?

it drips – blood –
beading in a thread from the weave you pricked into your skin, along your inner thigh, trying to disguise the blessed virgin’s face
it steeped up as an aubergine bruise, after you took tea with the stranger next door
all the while wearing a melancholic look –
lost child the world has come undone, and you despair
you are called by the lines – crow’s feet –
they roost under your eyes, a woman who discovered that her body, contained
within the expanse of breasts and vagina, was not a nesting place for those whose hands wear 6 inch nails
you seek under a slip of silk, a permission pass –
to yearn beyond, because Freud imagined a pear to be a poor substitute for an apple, but willingly blamed your hysteria on your vagina and monthly blood anyway –
it was easier than admitting his impotence

now you live in seclusion, in Baba Yaga’s Hut –
the foundations broken wishbones and the floor a scattering of chicken feathers
and you bend in on yourself under the weight of the gale, the sky a misfit black fisted threat, but it can’t break a willow’s spine, much less when the leaf has long been stripped
in some respect, you regret your awakening, you wish for the bald blindness that was once your shield and protection –
awareness is bitter, the pocked pit of the nectarine you bite into with canine teeth, tearing at the ruby coral labial flesh, scaling hand over foot to mouth, to over-ride the pain, scaffolding into the royal black sky, as the stars are hungry this night

so it is you fall back, nuzzling the earth, eating the meat of the flesh before loping away in graceful strides – wolf
costumed in this body so foreign it weighs, like a spinning globe in your hands, territories uncharted but lands raped between head space and anus –
you, cast out from the foothills, where the archer rests his long bow –
in the darkness you ask of the moon, could you be called by any other name, other than the typical, the mimeomia sameness a first skin all women wear
and she calls out – wild child
– and you accept, refusing to wear a crown of thorns

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: wordle#157

1. Blood
2. Despair
3. Woman
4. Seek
5. Seclusion
6. Willowy
7. Beaten
8. Aware
9. Nectarine
10. Scaffold
11. Wolf
12. Mimeomia ((n.) the frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to,even if it’s unfair,even if everyone else feels the same way — each of us trick-or-treating for money and respect and attention,wearing a safe and predictable costume because we’re tired of answering the question,“What are you supposed to be?”)