Tag Archives: desire

Beautiful, Yet Dangerous

Standard

“…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…

Hoa-mai-roi

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

Advertisements

That Trick With The Cherry Stem

Standard

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.

 

 

Creative Commons License
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

Standard

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.

41971-american-dad-roger-gets-a-mammogram
Hilariously creepy.

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

This Moment

Standard

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

An-Anatomy-of-an-Experience-09-2014-copy
Taken from Right to Joy: http://righttojoy.com/uncategorized/transformation/personal-spiritual/resistance-the-path-out/

 

 

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

~ 4 AM ~

Standard

~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.

 

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

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

Black Light Beauty

Standard

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.

forensic evidence

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

My Craving

Standard

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.

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

 

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