Beautiful, Yet Dangerous

“…and the flowers she planted, narcissus and hoa mai which cracked open each spring – the sky, she brought it low, until the air was hot and wet and broke into a rain…” – Cathy Linh Che, “My Mother Upon Hearing News of Her Mother’s Death” from Split, Alice James Books, 2014.

Don’t go there,
Where the hoa mai blaze like a fever
Near the riverbanks where her collection of sun-bleached bones glisten in the rain.
It’s beautiful, but dangerous
Where the narcissus bloom
Amidst rusted tin cans in overgrown cul-de-sacs.
She brings the sky low,
Makes it heavy and hot like breath,
Speaks to me ancient languages of pollen and nectar
Using cyclamen lips and a tongue like a tuber cracked open in spring.
Her belly rolls like distant thunder during her sudden summer sizzles
It’s beautiful, but dangerous there
Where the trout lilies riot in silence,
Near the creekbeds where her hair weaves into bulrushes,
Amidst blown tires scattered down endless highways.
And the flowers she planted…
And the flowers she planted…

This work, “Beautiful Yet Dangerous” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

That Trick With The Cherry Stem

Even if you learn that trick with the cherry stem,
they won’t stay.
Your lovers will evaporate like water in a kettle boiled dry,
before the coffee is pressed,
before you are dressed,
because your mouth is a graveyard of kisses.
Other people’s teeth and tongues
pass between your stained lips to die.
Sighs of desire, of lies, of satisfaction, of lies, of promises, of lies
float like ocean debris on your saliva.
They don’t say your name because they don’t know who you are.
You don’t hear your name because you don’t know who you are.
Your bed is a container for the carcasses of caresses gone by,
the sheets are a museum displaying the ancient burial techniques of a lonely womyn:
hopes mummified in cotton, perfumed with stale cigarette smoke, sprinkled with cracker crumbs, matted in cat fur.
A night with you is more funerary rite than passion.
A knotted cherry stem is only a headstone in a place people are afraid to linger.

 

 

This work, “That Trick With The Cherry Stem” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Flies

He tells me that the flies are not good for my image.
I want to tell him that the spider webs that hang between my ribs are not for decoration,
That my fingers are locusts and my lips are earthworms.
My skin slides off my bones, soft, putrid, decomposing.
The flies keep the snakes in my hair company and give them something to eat.
Stare deep into my cockroach-coloured eyes, my love,
And kiss me before you realize that I am a corpse who has not yet died.

Hilariously creepy.

This work, “Flies” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

This Moment

This moment tastes like salt
Seawater lagoons swirling in fingerprints
Monsoon collarbones
Precipitation gathering in clefts and splits
Crusted saline deposits bathed away
By free-flowing freshwater geysers

This moment sounds like freight trains
Grind of metal on metal
Hot sparks licking steel
Diesel-powered cries from the backs of throats
Go on and on and on and on and on
Downhill, no air brakes, hipbone to hipbone, belly to belly

This moment smells like funk
Smoky, musty, earthy
Dangerous enchanted forests
Deeply felt extended vamp on single chord
Strong, rhythmic groove of electric bass
Tang of wedding dress long forgotten in damp attic

This moment feels like blowback
Sensuous sensimilla-smooth sucking
Lip trick, tongue dip, joint flick
Contact high down low
Lazy slow stretch towards dawn
Never caring to reach

Taken from Right to Joy: http://righttojoy.com/uncategorized/transformation/personal-spiritual/resistance-the-path-out/

 

 

This work, “This Moment” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

~ 4 AM ~

~4 AM ~

I’m not reading C.R. Avery in the bathtub,
Prostate-exam deep into the middle of the night,
Chainsmoking Djarum Specials because I am depressed.
Really, I’m a big mama burlesque queen holding court in Bubble Kingdom.
Some birds wash for the hell of it.

~ 4 AM ~

I left my heart and my phone charger in Vancouver.
I miss one more than the other.
The mountains were the headboard to our bed,
And the ocean was the wet spot on our sheets.
I really wish I remembered my phone charger.

~ 4 AM ~

There is a piece of mail that I never open.
That last Christmas card you sent me
Sits on top of my stereo between the case for Erykah Badu’s Live
And some seashells from a vacation I never went on.
It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.

~ 4 AM ~

It scares me that when I die,
No one will notice that I am gone.
Everything that I ever loved will end up in a dumpster.
Flowers will grow through my ribcage.
Tree roots will crack through my pelvis.

~ 4 AM ~

He told everyone that I was too sad.
I didn’t have his cocaine to rub into my love to make my heart numb.
I had confessed I had a fear of abandonment.
He said he would never leave, and it is true.
I still find bits of his lies wherever I go.

~ 4 AM ~

I’ve stopped writing love poems for people who don’t appreciate them.
Instead, in red lipstick on cocktail napkins,
I write “if you park on my street after 2 AM, you will get a ticket.”
It’s not romantic, but neither is a $30 fine at 4 AM.
And let’s face it: nobody is staying for my complementary continental breakfast.

~ 4 AM ~

Dried umbilical cords, resin, old teeth, feathers, and herbs.
Prayers, spells, chants, incantations, dirges, and degrees.
Psalmistry and palmistry.
Someone once asked if I was a good witch or a bad witch.
I said if they ever figured it out to let me know.

~ 4 AM ~

She writes me notes saying that she hopes that I am okay.
I don’t know how to tell her that at 4 AM,
Nothing is okay.
The only thing to look forward to is the contused eye of night
Finally fading into the orange-green bruise of dawn.

 

Is this your picture? Please let me know so that I may credit you.

This work, “~4 AM~” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Black Light Beauty

The important thing is not to leave a trace.

I empty the ashtray,
Clean the pipe,
Rinse out the wine glasses.

We touch, but leave no fingerprints.
Our kisses drift off our lips like stray eyelashes in warm, summer breezes.
You always leave after soaping me off your face and hands because I am the scene of your crime,
Your black light beauty,
The reason you flip the mattress and sleep in a t-shirt.

I burn cedar and sage,
Dump out the trash can,
Push bleach around the floor with a mop.

My apartment is tidy,
If you don’t look too closely.
My heart is pure,
Except for the gun powder burns.

It is as if we are never inside each others’ bodies,
Except for the DNA residue.
It takes forensic serology to place us together.

The important thing is not to leave a trace.

This work, “Black Light Beauty” by Beth  is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

My Craving

He always comes when I call, no matter the hour.
His hand never needs to knock on my door
Because I pace the hallway until he arrives
His car lights aren’t even off before I am reaching for him

 He always tells me that I am beautiful.
He compliments the way my home always smells of herbs.
His smile is as wide as the moon.
When he is with me, it’s like nothing else in the world matters.

 When he leaves, he always blows me a kiss.
He promises that he will come back any time that I need him.
He knows that even though he has left me satisfied tonight,
It won’t be long until I want to eat pizza again.

 
Is this your image? Please let me know so that I may credit you!

 

This work, “My Craving” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Brant Rant’s Anti-Valentine’s Day Slam: Featuring Beth Murch!

If you think of broken-hearted people swilling whisky and smoking cigarettes in an embittered fashion, apparently, you are not alone!  Come celebrate Valentine’s Day with me, the Perpetual Spinster, at The Brant Rant’s Anti-Valentine’s Day Slam. Or, you know, don’t…I’m used to being alone. WAH!!!

The Deets:

Who: Beth Murch (me!)
What: The Brant Rant’s Anti-Valentine’s Day Slam
Where: Rockling’s Tap & Grill, Brantford, Ontario
When: Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Why: Because misery loves company?
How: By crying into our beers and sharing poetry

Event’s Facebook Page: The Brant Rant’s Anti-Valentine’s Day Slam feat. Beth Murch

This Is Why I Think You Should Kiss Me

Sometimes, I wonder how I would taste on your lips.

Imagine if the best parts of you
Combined with the best parts of me.
We would create something so spectacular
That it would require sequins and theme music.
This is why I think that you should kiss me,
Because there is only one thing that poets can do better than perform poetry,
And that, my friend, is kissing.

For, when two poets kiss,
There are four lips, limber and luscious,
Used to stretching around difficult words and concepts like
Love
Commitment
Trust
Faith    And
Worcestershire sauce.

 When two poets kiss,
There are two tongues, twisting and twirling,
Figure skating across ice rinks of palates,
Triple Salchow-ing in pairs
While Barry Manilow blasts in the background.
Oh, Mandy…Oh, oh, Mandy…

 When two poets kiss,
There are two mouths, moist and moving,
Playing games of charades.
Remember, words are forbidden and only gestures are permitted.
Three words:
Sounds like,
“Mmmmmphhhaaahhh. Mmmmmphhhaaahhh. Mmmmmphhhaaahhh.”

Sometimes, I wonder how you would taste on my lips.

 Look, there are always going to be things that we poets don’t get right.
Words can be misspelled. Lines can be forgotten.
A participle can dangle out of someone’s pants after they have left the bathroom.
We will always be vulnerable.
We will always fuck up and say something stupid,
Because even though we are artists, we are still only human.
Sometimes, it is best for poets to just shut up and do what they do best…
…which is kissing.
And, like I said,
I think we could create something so spectacular
That it would require sequins and theme music…
…That is why I think you should kiss me.

 

This work, “This Is Why I Think You Should Kiss Me” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Thousand Love Letters

I could write you a thousand love letters on my skin
Promises etched into the backs of my knees and the palms of my hands
Endearments printed on my inner thighs
Soft cries of passion painted down the slope of my spine
But what good are words committed to flesh
When grammar remains uncaressed
When syntax remains unstroked
When you are not here to read all that my body has to say?

 If you want me
Trace the angles of my script with your fingertips
Decipher my logograms with your lips
Scrape every diacritical mark with playful teeth
Suck on the edges of my alphabets until I am no longer coherent
And language becomes a mere accessory
Read me all night
Read me until you can no longer keep your eyes open.

This work, “A Thousand Love Letters” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.