In Hollow Pulp, She Implores To Be Slain

Base passion as the dress, 

with worst passions flowing down, 

riding on the frills that stretch 

outward, to the world

Against all goodness, against all faces

Including her own, oh,

Most significantly her own

It is the measure that securely, 

Defeats any ripe, buoyant possibility

For glory to break through

Yet

The glory weighed

Apart from her, is the glory employed

To hastily morph into weaponry

Such sweet, delightful weaponry 

It invades and caresses, it ruins and satisfies

In hollow pulp, she implores to be slain

 

To be continued…as I further my Melanie Klein reading…oh the breast, you’ve wrecked me so… 

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Anger, poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s