deepundergroundpoetry.com
Labia Labile
Upon a plain of golden dust
beneath the mirrors of disgust
spread the petals glazed with mud
in bloom for all who rip their bud
selfish hands become their crown
enthroned on filth with no renown
such is the fate of flowers that glisten
only through drops of unborn children
presiding above their kingdoms of woe
tower the fists of tugging and blows
shutting throats that swallow pride
for only dying feels alive
many a sunset descends to your haven,
for dying pigeons, not shimmering ravens
many a song where your meaning erodes,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
many a stream flows to your spring
for thirsty beggars, not drunken kings
many a knock on doors that don't close,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
the scars of your dusk trap every eve
for singing pirates who ho and heave
the clouds on your sky are trails of delight
and each is the way to a different night
they glimmer like notes in the anthem of sins
like rules of the game where nobody wins
rays of the dark that buries all words
the stairway to the underworld
they're the oars of shipwrecked boys
who lost their fortune in your joys
finding right before they're eaten
that you breathe for soulless seamen
many a crease carved in your sand
by gluttonous meat, not loving hands
many a point lost on their roads,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
many a black staining your rose
by cliché prose, not heartfelt poems
many a seed where nothing grows,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those.
beneath the mirrors of disgust
spread the petals glazed with mud
in bloom for all who rip their bud
selfish hands become their crown
enthroned on filth with no renown
such is the fate of flowers that glisten
only through drops of unborn children
presiding above their kingdoms of woe
tower the fists of tugging and blows
shutting throats that swallow pride
for only dying feels alive
many a sunset descends to your haven,
for dying pigeons, not shimmering ravens
many a song where your meaning erodes,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
many a stream flows to your spring
for thirsty beggars, not drunken kings
many a knock on doors that don't close,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
the scars of your dusk trap every eve
for singing pirates who ho and heave
the clouds on your sky are trails of delight
and each is the way to a different night
they glimmer like notes in the anthem of sins
like rules of the game where nobody wins
rays of the dark that buries all words
the stairway to the underworld
they're the oars of shipwrecked boys
who lost their fortune in your joys
finding right before they're eaten
that you breathe for soulless seamen
many a crease carved in your sand
by gluttonous meat, not loving hands
many a point lost on their roads,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those
many a black staining your rose
by cliché prose, not heartfelt poems
many a seed where nothing grows,
(don't) touch me with those,
(don't) touch me with those.
Published 15th Jul 2019
Author's Note
A piece about creases on the lips of autodestructive girls. Hopefully the metaphors are recognizable
Absolute explanation (uncensored, written for my friends):
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http://prntscr.com/nl7z70
Absolute explanation (uncensored, written for my friends):
http://prntscr.com/nl7ygg
http://prntscr.com/nl7z70
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
15th Jul 2019 1:57pm
These verses have an élan slightly fractured for me by unexpected stresses
15th Jul 2019 2:06pm
15th Jul 2019 2:26pm
You mix pentameter with shorter verses and the stress is not as coherent as in a more straightforward metre. In a way it gives pause to think 🤔
Yeah, I love to mix actually, I understand it makes the overall flow inconsistent, but the flow of each stanza certainly does have consistency, so I guess variety is what I'm usually after
As you can see, this poem is
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As you can see, this poem is
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