Mutter-Love-Songs

I've stitched myself inside you now, my love,
  So cosy-close I'm drowning in your hair
    And worming rosy fingertips,
      Into the weak spots of our seams.

I'm tucked into your corners now,
  To keep your brooms from sweeping me.
    I'm growing sticky-brown and grey
     From capturing the dust of you.

I've put my hands inside your lips,
  Endorsed your gums with snivelled need,
    Shut down your sight, and feel my hands:
      Don't look, love, at my eyes.

Don't look love, at my eyes,
  I'll hide them just behind your own,
  I'll twist and screw them shut with bone,
  I'll tie the bindings closed,
  I'll needlepoint the entry wound I've left:
I've stitched myself inside you now, my love.

Read More......

Passing a Man in the Hallway

I looked at him and only saw: his beard,
His tight-trimmed hair, his square-boned, jutting jaw.

Ungenerous instincts of the victim.

I watched him watch me lace up lazy lips,
And pull the cheerful corners of my mouth
Into a casual kindness, one that shouts
'Hello'.
And leaves it at that.

Imagination crippled, fear invoked,
By nothing but a shortened chromosome.

Ungenerous instincts of the victim.

(image from mkuhn)

Read More......

To Frieda Hughes

(Note: This poem is in response to the beautiful poem by Frieda Hughes that Ms Nymeth recently posted, which has been haunting me and reminding me of my own voyeurism, ever since. Sorry Sylia, sorry Frieda. I meant well) Ms Hughes,

I must apologize,
I am one of the cowards,
Of the vultures,
Ever gnawing at the gristle stripped bones.

I am the worm
Imbibing tender flesh.

No pride in that.

We are but humans,
We, the readers,
We are simply mechanisms,
Gnawing forward, forward
Always to the one
Who speaks without
A crankshaft in her throat.

And if the lady non-machine
Lay in the turf
We earthen wind-ups
Shake our jittered spades
We burrow through the sterile earth
To birth our maggots on
The only flesh
That can accept our eggs.

Forgive we little worms,
There's voyeurism in
Our tin-toothed cogging brains.
We mean no harm.
Someone must disconnect the bits of life
And leave behind the loamy soil
Of history digested -
In digestion, death transformed
Into fertility.

Sincerely,

Jason Gignac

(Image from kevincollins123)

Read More......