Saturday, 5 November 2016

2 Poems by Victor Clevenger

My Monster

Once again, she
ripped and clawed her way
            through the
                        tough layers
                                    of
                        I'll never love you again
                                    and I let her.
                        I’m a weak man in my nightmares.


Arson

It's birth. It's death.
It's that crooked
little bitch-faced
grin of satisfaction that

he will display once there
is a fire devouring
inside his guts, and
inside his eyes . . .

stoked by cardiac
heaves of commingled
emotions, saturated
and lit ablaze by a

touch.
It's fingers. It's lips.
It's cocks. It's cunts.
It's LOVE,

or the act of love
that brings the birth
to provide the death,
and the fires lit inside while

he waits just happen —
one day he, you, we and they
will all smear this world with
nothing but ashes and hope;

I hope.




No comments:

Post a comment