Looking over the Kingdom abuzz
through cat’s eyes some hundred feet tall
I see my London and hate myself for it.
For if I were a tree, my roots deep and dry and gone bad,
this’d be the bark all rough against my cheek.
Still I’m looking to go
where the wind howls and the grey leans over
and the rain whips down merciless and heavy
and the waters are the colour of the forest
where the leaves are, and the flowers
longing to turn into fruit
as forbidden as a life in love and lightness.
Seems like I’ve framed myself into feeling precious again
Convinced that I can find her in every corner of the road
like I used to so easily
But now I’m old and dull and she won’t play with me.
And, deary me, I even sometimes wish I was a man
so I can say I’m old without these eyes of pity slapping me
across my burdensome name.
“What a disgrace”-I
have long stopped needing to be graceful.
Between death and living on the strings of your support
-well, isn’t the choice obvious?
Stingy little breaths
Charitable droplets of life straight to my veins
Just because you never know, and that’s the thing with miracles.
Besides, I’d put my dignity above anything but you.
Our body, the temple
Our body, the slaughterhouse
The battlefield, the water
The drops that merge and trickle down the mirror
Our one body
trembling, shaking, quivering
The magnet trying to break free from the hands of concrete,
break the screen.
Our toffee torture;
But then sweetness has never been you.
You’re famished, my love;
I offer you my bosom, soft and smooth
if only you could find your way to quench our thirst.
How could this ever be unlawful?
But if I’ve been taught anything
it’s that the rules are sacred
(so what if those who wrote them were the brokest).
Now, be good little girl
Harden your softness, soften your might,
come undone before the eyes of what God?
Your handstands, your somersaults will go down in history
The History Of The Small, History Of The Critters
Or go ahead and be a snake, alone and horrified of what is you.
Is that what you want?
‘Cause the sky’s not for us
Our god is dirt,
all safe and humble. Tempered. Grave.
Woe’d be me if they saw me turn my head up to see her
all terrifying and majestic, looking to undress me
to ravish me, to kick me up the staircase
to my pedestal of shame, my comfortable throne.
The mother I’ll forever run away from,
then come running back to, so she’ll cauterise my wounds
gathering spectators of all kinds
but leaving no witnesses to her crime.
She dopes me up and puts me to bed
She calls you to my side and leaves
for such is her charity
And I become the cloud that embraces your moon
And I become the laughter that lights up your miserable nooks
And I become the whirlwind that lifts you off the ground for
Eight
Glorious
Seconds.
Again, the morning,
that cruel, shiny bastard slides his grabby hands through.
I’d rather he punched me in my stupid face,
than make a mere dream out of our illness divine.
But still I dress,
and still I wash,
I walk the streets in my months of hangover
praying for you to send me my hair of the dog
soon.
I’m tired.
Have mercy on me.
About the Creator
Stella Lyra
Everything flows
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