Submissions by Donchonorgo (Louis Lee Warner)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
The Revenant
Something I have mourned for
with all my heart.
Something I have eviscerated and disposed of, neatly.
The sight of him pinches at me
and I surrender as my elastic skin does,
without combat,
pressing against his warm, accustomed fingers.
I cannot look him in the eye,
when we speak and drink.
I think it too cruel and too honest.
with all my heart.
Something I have eviscerated and disposed of, neatly.
The sight of him pinches at me
and I surrender as my elastic skin does,
without combat,
pressing against his warm, accustomed fingers.
I cannot look him in the eye,
when we speak and drink.
I think it too cruel and too honest.
636 reads
0 Comments
Saturn smiles
Is that why I'm smiling,
precious?
At how obvious,
at how darling
the painting of my lips
the parting of my legs
the panting from my malefic throat,
the prying of his calamitous hand
from hers.
precious?
At how obvious,
at how darling
the painting of my lips
the parting of my legs
the panting from my malefic throat,
the prying of his calamitous hand
from hers.
678 reads
0 Comments
Arms
No hands
Thick black lines
meeting at a single point
Sharp, like crystals
sparkling like powdered
fairy wings:
ground under my claws
Sticky
from the guts and dust
that feel and taste like uncooked cake mix,
pooling in my mouth.
Thick black lines
meeting at a single point
Sharp, like crystals
sparkling like powdered
fairy wings:
ground under my claws
Sticky
from the guts and dust
that feel and taste like uncooked cake mix,
pooling in my mouth.
720 reads
2 Comments
Exoskeleton ( or Pretentious)
Green bilge:
Insect shells grows heavy,
so plump
no longer husk.
Thick medicine
trickling down the abdomen,
so viscous; not possible
to swallow.
Decapitated antennae,
scattered eyes and maws:
'Spasm mindless insect
and endure.'
Insect shells grows heavy,
so plump
no longer husk.
Thick medicine
trickling down the abdomen,
so viscous; not possible
to swallow.
Decapitated antennae,
scattered eyes and maws:
'Spasm mindless insect
and endure.'
723 reads
2 Comments
Fungus
Green cushion
hanging beneath
the nail.
Indicative
of neglect,
yet perversely
nurtured.
Flaxen smiles
woven inside
the nail.
Creative
and prolific;
palliative arts
of disease.
hanging beneath
the nail.
Indicative
of neglect,
yet perversely
nurtured.
Flaxen smiles
woven inside
the nail.
Creative
and prolific;
palliative arts
of disease.
681 reads
0 Comments
Ascension
From the top of a building
and an unflinching smile
he leaps,
hair whipping around his face,
pale, cherubic skin
warps against the sky.
Pavement soon absorbs him,
reducing him quickly
into a puddle.
Blood seeps over itself,
nuzzling his mismatched flesh
until it is too liquid.
The red mass glows,
if for a second,
increasing the vivacity of its movements.
It feels deeper somehow,
as if the ground was hollow beneath;
as if a lake had grown within his wide guts
and...
and an unflinching smile
he leaps,
hair whipping around his face,
pale, cherubic skin
warps against the sky.
Pavement soon absorbs him,
reducing him quickly
into a puddle.
Blood seeps over itself,
nuzzling his mismatched flesh
until it is too liquid.
The red mass glows,
if for a second,
increasing the vivacity of its movements.
It feels deeper somehow,
as if the ground was hollow beneath;
as if a lake had grown within his wide guts
and...
730 reads
0 Comments
Tornado
My grotesque fascination with air
is almost a sadistic one;
here I am, begging to see it
malnourished and stretched
and torn and tortured.
It is hollow and beckoning,
erupting with its vacuum.
And then
it is released unto the world.
is almost a sadistic one;
here I am, begging to see it
malnourished and stretched
and torn and tortured.
It is hollow and beckoning,
erupting with its vacuum.
And then
it is released unto the world.
664 reads
0 Comments
Odourless
Without my taste
what would I be?
A gelatine silhouette,
a devil tongue, not here,
no pink pirouette
across my form.
what would I be?
A gelatine silhouette,
a devil tongue, not here,
no pink pirouette
across my form.
628 reads
0 Comments
Paper
My grip is feeble and necessary
like a paperclip;
I cling to papers
like old, thin lips clutch their mouths.
My hands are small
and they hold the world.
But the papers will scatter
from my tired grip,
cascade down my body
as a papery dress in motion,
leaving me a naked
plasticine torso.
like a paperclip;
I cling to papers
like old, thin lips clutch their mouths.
My hands are small
and they hold the world.
But the papers will scatter
from my tired grip,
cascade down my body
as a papery dress in motion,
leaving me a naked
plasticine torso.
655 reads
0 Comments
Sincerity
The only sincere feelings
are the cold and the morose,
those sensations that linger and wait
and address your whole body
firmly, like a fur coat.
are the cold and the morose,
those sensations that linger and wait
and address your whole body
firmly, like a fur coat.
659 reads
0 Comments
Behind (subject)
Behind a thick glass
I cannot hear you.
I feel silly
when I watch.
I hide my face behind my hands,
peek at you from between my fingers.
I don't want
my breath to touch you.
I grow my eyes
into suns behind you.
I cannot hear you.
I feel silly
when I watch.
I hide my face behind my hands,
peek at you from between my fingers.
I don't want
my breath to touch you.
I grow my eyes
into suns behind you.
654 reads
0 Comments
Sand
Skin flakes
off of my face
like grains of sand;
so many pieces,
that I won’t notice until
they’re all gone
and all that’s left is me:
every shaky movement and
awkward misstep,
every gross, exaggerated mannerism
and disgusting lie
that I have ever hidden here.
I would
place my hands to the wall, flat,
scrunch up my eyes
and let the memories ooze
out of my palms
as if they were never there;
as if they would disappear forever.
“Where am I going?”
Asks the crumbling man.
off of my face
like grains of sand;
so many pieces,
that I won’t notice until
they’re all gone
and all that’s left is me:
every shaky movement and
awkward misstep,
every gross, exaggerated mannerism
and disgusting lie
that I have ever hidden here.
I would
place my hands to the wall, flat,
scrunch up my eyes
and let the memories ooze
out of my palms
as if they were never there;
as if they would disappear forever.
“Where am I going?”
Asks the crumbling man.
723 reads
1 Comment
DU Poetry : Submissions by Donchonorgo (Louis Lee Warner)