jonaswpoetry

[jonaswpoetry]

Sunrise

Like dirt-starved worms, desperate fingers

tickle at my scalp, finding faults: chipped nails

—

digging in to tender flesh until finally a wound

is made that may be exploited — pick, tug, and

widen it, excavate deeper, expand this skull's

—

newfound maw, before grabbing either jaw

tight, then tearing far the distance between

—

their bite. Thus, all voices

stop. Serenity's cock-crow goes

unheard across tomorrow's

—

brightest, warmest sunrise

[jonaswpoetry]

"Somedays the sun comes up in spite of me"

[jonaswpoetry]

Snuffed

His armchair is his, and not

a thing in this room mine. He’ll

stuff me in a chamber, then set

—

every pipedream alight — night

after soft-thumbed night; after nine-

teen years of soundly snuffed

—

hopes, I’m done smouldering

alone — I’d like a chance to burn

more than momentarily

—

bright, in my own home

@nosebleedclub Poetry Month Prompts 11. pipe tobacco

[jonaswpoetry]

Elevated arsonist

The arsonist is elevated: his roar

reaches far, and in-

cinerates every pathetic barricade

—

thrown up between selves — regurgitated

deflections bled dry, though not quite

'til death, 'ere left perfectly desiccated

—

for infernal tongues to feast upon

while fumes bring about moonfall: that fated

moment when post-dusk wanders alone

—

are realised as never having been

truly solitary — instead, my steps

were tracked — every single one

—

was seen, heard, or

even

felt by another being

[jonaswpoetry]

Birdsong and thrill

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve done

And a stupid thing

That we do

Dancing all night long

To the beat of solitude

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve said

About the stupid things

That you do

A poison in your head

From words you misconstrue

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

The midnight calls

And forlorn hopes

Have left us both

Up on the ropes

And if they give

What can I give?

To bring this back

What can I give?

 -

It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done

But it’s all been done

And there’s no coming back from

The grey skies I’ve known, when

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

[jonaswpoetry]

Itch

You know that fly you'll try to catch, but at every chance, are too slow to react? I've a problem like that: an itch I just can't scratch

—

You know that song your soul appalled, with the viral chorus that can't not be caught? I've such infectious thoughts, as though my head is haunted

—

You know those paths once daily traipsed, that assured trod safety, but now frighten like strangers? I've forgotten all their faces — will my heart be next forsaken?

—

You know that joke that made you laugh, but now years after, you simply can't stand it? I've a whole life like that: I flinch at every flashback

@nosebleedclub January Prompts: Itch

[jonaswpoetry]

Cross talk

Labyrinthine, malignant cross-

talk under mellowing stars; my

feet make futile haste — they

—

roll the callow home set beneath

their incessancy — while miles

are crossed by thoughts that can

—

not either find seats, or (far more

kindly) leave me to resonating

desertion; thus, I remain violently

—

strung along

[jonaswpoetry]

[jonaswpoetry]

Twelve doors

December wants my lungs to turn in-

side-out; cure them in the season’s

—

brine until they can withstand what-

ever atmosphere follows. Twelve doors

left open, but: another portal awaits

—

that I enter, then swallow its room’s

draft already cut with contamination

@nosebleedclub What does December want from you?

[jonaswpoetry]

He now becomes a portrait

Tear the infant from my heavy

heart, and dash upon our city’s corner-

—

stone insincerity his innocent

skull — painted by sweet blood, with

—

faultless gore for texture, he now

becomes a portrait of virtues’ warmth

@nosebleedclub November Prompts 21. Pristine white

[jonaswpoetry]

Just a reminder that this blog supports the trans community and if you don't, I'd appreciate it if you unfollowed me.

[jonaswpoetry]

Habitual love

Habitual love is like the sunrise

—

spreading light-speed kisses far

across a wasteland that forgets

old fruits — and their atrocious

—

spoiling — at every opportunity

@nosebleedclub November Prompts 14. Forgiveness

[jonaswpoetry]

Miles of skins

Dare to look behind & see all

along the crawled path: miles

—

of skins shed so that you may

take each next step; how many

—

times has a refreshed face

fallen away? I ask with one

—

answer ready: whatever number

as must have been necessary

@nosebleedclub November Prompts 10. what it took to get here

[jonaswpoetry]

Fellowship

Happenstance: an acrid afternoon

spent in the city’s mist, writhing

for carrion’s likeness — comfort

—

otherwise unattainable under this

collapsing sky; it’s fellowship with

any victim that might still provide

—

a butcher warmth inside. Have I

become tomorrow’s nourishment?

@nosebleedclub November Prompts 1. heartbreaker

[jonaswpoetry]

Would you hang or would you sink? Flutter like butterfly or moth? Freeze over or return to ash?

To hang, I'd have to achieve the unlikelihood of rising, while to sink there'd need to be somewhere lower than I am right now.

To flutter, whether by night or day, I'd have to decide where to rest my wings once done — held fanning out from my sides, or folded behind my back — and I've always struggled when it comes to resting.

To freeze over, I would have to entertain the possibility of thawing, and returning to who I used to be, and re-encountering self-inflicted mispleasures. To return to ash, I would have to remember the path to being nothing. Neither option swells my heart.

[jonaswpoetry]

Passion hushed Upon

Your affection as candied poison

and bitter antidote alike — just

—

feed it to me, softly; who else

would drink down fatal passion

hushed upon  them through all

—

hours of their very final night?

@nosebleedclub October Prompts 27. Murmur

[jonaswpoetry]

Do, teach (Expectations)

Do, teach me how to hush

—

this suffering without

smothering the spark

that threatens & flirts

my utter, irrevocable

—

voicelessness before God

@nosebleedclub October Prompts 8. Demure