duckieofthelake

[duckieofthelake]

Lora Mathis

[duckieofthelake]

Self-immolation

I wonder if I'm hoping for the right things.

Am I doing it right?

Why do I blame the shameful past and thank it at the same time?

The stars have marched to the other side

The flaring horns beckon to the east.

The clouds part to make way for the king of the heavens.

Yet I'm still lying on my back

staring at the dull gray ceiling, motionless

My pillow now damp in tears 

and the remnants of my black mascara.

Should I pray? Will I be heard this time? Shall I bet on being saved?

In a few hours, I'll be away and back.

My new face—20 years younger —from concealing the bags and lines that hint my lack of sleep

I'll pretend this never happened

As if I did not complain

And be the good girl I was trained to portray.

I sell my body

I take the money

It's still mine, but I don't recognize it.

I'm a soul roaming in the astral plane

Who stares helplessly as

My skin tears open, the scabs bleed, the blisters snap, my body fondled like a statue bringing luck

By men whose mouths resemble that of dogs with rabies.

They say the Lord is in the face of each creation,

But in the eyes and mouths of the privileged,

I’m reduced as the soil who bore Eden’s sinful fruit.

They tell their children that my pleasure comes when the snake

wraps around and its venom seeps

through my lonely and yearning flesh. 

They assume the likes of me are deaf.

But with no time to spare, I wear my familiar mask

A seductive smile, I stroke the metal pole

And grip it tight. I bind myself to 

what they call the dance of freedom. 

The blasphemous fire consumes me, 

but I come back rising from the ashes.

The stage is mine again.

Never mind the pain, no, it can wait. 

Because when it rains in drought, you catch every pouring bead

And leave all else behind.

My body might hate me

It will, for long

For it shall suffer another surge of emptiness that lasts till twilight.

But one thing’s for sure: it will be eating well tonight.

— duckieofthelake

[duckieofthelake]

My Muse

It is the same as every day—I look to my side while walking in case I find you there. I look back twice in the same direction if my prayer comes true. I am Pandora. It calls onto me, the voices in the box, and I need not just a glimpse, I want it all and to myself — you. Like a connoisseur observing a mural, I have your picture injecting my veins, crawling under my skin, permeating my consciousness. Hold still for five more minutes. Aren’t you heaven-sent? Are you the sins of the world meant to haunt me as I become aware of your presence, or are you the saving grace that would liberate me from unfurling Dadaism?

Sculpture of perpetual beauty, don’t go wandering far. I’ve blessed the world with creations of the arts upon the thought of you.

My muse, why do you leave after eternally bewitching me? I’ve met countless of people who presented themselves as gods, but none of them were worthy of worship; I have never loved them as much as you.Canvases of blue, red, and yellow fill my gallery, and it’s you in every frame. How does a figure make me feel complete? How does a tongue shatter my walls? Feelings are meant to be transient, so how do you fill me with ever-greening longing, jealousy, and jubilation?

My picturesque model, siren of the lake, if, sooner or later, I’m meant to be devoid of your song, and my paintings are to change subjects, let me forget you nimbly. Though I can never find a second you, or one far superior, tell me to stop searching for your face in every scenery, every alley, every memory, that I shall avoid internal desolation and move on from lifelong insipidity. Until then, stay still, that I may impregnate my tiny museum created in your esteem.