Friday, September 4, 2009

Poetry Year September 2

Brocades of silk entwine my hair,
that cascades around my shoulders.
I stare with false intensity,
to brush the tangles from it's length.
The sheen of care makes halo of the dark strands,
that flow over my shoulders.

You gaze at me, longing and wanting,
needing and craving.
But I, ensconced in felininity,
am exude ennui.

But for me you will do anything,
and follow me anywhere.
A twitch of my finger,
a turn of my head,
a shape of my thigh,
a twist of my torso,
will like tides overwhelming,
sweep you out beyond the sight of land.

I smile, and you brighten,
I stretch taut my body, and my nipples press,
visible through sheer curtain of my blouse.

You follow,
I lead.
And in the darkened side light street,
reeking with dank sweat and anger,
they will stab you, rake you with their knives,
tear your liver from your belly,
and leave you crying for you mother,
pleading not to die.

Oh yes I am such a witch,
because enthralled the same,
I am as helpless before my desire,
as you were to yours.

In death, in life,
it is the same,
servile before
the screeching demands,
of that hidden whip
that lashes across our most private parts,
leaving scars, that never heal.

[A girl, 16, was convicted in Britain for luring her ex-boyfriend to be stabbed to death by the boy she wanted and his posse.]

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