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Literature Text
I’m not often moved to poetry, to stanzas
sibilant and
heavy on the tongue.
Not given to verbally splitting the skin, pulling apart the gentle threads and fibres
that weave my consciousness together.
This séance, then, for this is what it is – an exorcism of sorts: is homage to the way you make me feel.
To the reverence you hold me in.
Me, the granddaughter of the witch they couldn’t burn.
Let me tell you what you’ve raised.
Cybele. Present. Powerful. I feel her aeons in the rolling of my hips.
This slow bump and grind is as eternal as the sea itself. Women have always walked with the gait of the Goddess.
And Scheherazade – she is there too,
wet and thick and warm,
her words fall from my mouth. I will spill honey, amber sunlight over your body.
Five years ago you wrote ‘Ananke’ inside my lips. An idea proud and shameless.
When my thighs move, Magna Mater, they are marble. They are stone and sculpture and they house the home of life and death hereafter.
I am Hecate come to hold you close.
You see, we women deal in blood. We shed it like scripture,
like six pomegranate seeds
we are half bound to birth,
with one foot permanently planted in the underworld: magpies liminal.
Sacrifice to the nature that teaches us the secret ways of things.
And when you gently traced the wild geography of my body, you mapped its quivers.
Its rivers.
Its peaks and valleys and contours in between -
Yet this is no man’s land, and even though it does not belong to you,
you might still divine my secrets
from my sweetly weeping flesh.
So be a dear. Give me discourse synonymous with my fierce dichotomy.
Weave red thread around each one of my fingers.
Make me sob with pleasure – I’ll gasp for you bilingual in the true Mother’s tongue.
Navigate the narratives of the scars on my body.
And I will bless you
in turn.<sub>
sibilant and
heavy on the tongue.
Not given to verbally splitting the skin, pulling apart the gentle threads and fibres
that weave my consciousness together.
This séance, then, for this is what it is – an exorcism of sorts: is homage to the way you make me feel.
To the reverence you hold me in.
Me, the granddaughter of the witch they couldn’t burn.
Let me tell you what you’ve raised.
Cybele. Present. Powerful. I feel her aeons in the rolling of my hips.
This slow bump and grind is as eternal as the sea itself. Women have always walked with the gait of the Goddess.
And Scheherazade – she is there too,
wet and thick and warm,
her words fall from my mouth. I will spill honey, amber sunlight over your body.
Five years ago you wrote ‘Ananke’ inside my lips. An idea proud and shameless.
When my thighs move, Magna Mater, they are marble. They are stone and sculpture and they house the home of life and death hereafter.
I am Hecate come to hold you close.
You see, we women deal in blood. We shed it like scripture,
like six pomegranate seeds
we are half bound to birth,
with one foot permanently planted in the underworld: magpies liminal.
Sacrifice to the nature that teaches us the secret ways of things.
And when you gently traced the wild geography of my body, you mapped its quivers.
Its rivers.
Its peaks and valleys and contours in between -
Yet this is no man’s land, and even though it does not belong to you,
you might still divine my secrets
from my sweetly weeping flesh.
So be a dear. Give me discourse synonymous with my fierce dichotomy.
Weave red thread around each one of my fingers.
Make me sob with pleasure – I’ll gasp for you bilingual in the true Mother’s tongue.
Navigate the narratives of the scars on my body.
And I will bless you
in turn.<sub>
Literature
...
-dlaczego wróciłeś? chciałeś spojrzeć
ostani raz w moje oczy? przypomniałeś
sobie sześc wspólnych lat? czy może poprostu szepniesz
wybacz mi, i wszystko wróci?
-zapomniałem papierosów...
Literature
apocryphal
so cunning and seemingly honest
at times there is nothing but wit
yet not quite real on the inside
but nothing we care to admit
Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Suggested Collections
A discourse on divinity
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