The Hell Butterfly

“I’ll spend eternity comparing all my poetry to yours”

I don’t believe I have shared any of these yet. I was having a moment just now. I felt like I needed to share my creativity. Here are a selection of poems I’ve written and felt as though I wanted to share with you lovely people. I know by saying this I’ll probably be jinxing it, or pressuring you, but if you are one of the people reading this, I would appreciate either feedback (good or bad is fine) or just the name of your favourite in the comments. You know, for an ego boost. It’s always nice to know what people think and which of my works is the most successful. In the meantime, enjoy.

The Goddess, Pretence

O, dear glorious Pretence
Whisper sweetly in my ear:
“O Love, don’t be scared,
This is how it’s meant to be.

The smoke that curls around you,
Wraps its fingers in your hair,
Is nothing more than that;
Smoke, Love; smoke and air.”

Alone I wander, blind,
Drift silent through the crowd,
Make peace, the melancholy fog,
Down, down the riverside.

Image

‘David’ – Caravaggio

David

Lips parted in taunting or in shock, eyes
                                                             droop, dark, stare endlessly at you.
The mark of death, stone-cold, upon the forehead.
The head at opposition to the body. Shoulders down: beheaded.
Here lies Goliath.
White knuckles bare, unbroken; loop of string; young brightness, then
David in shadow.
Black lashes, brown curls, and nothing but the subtle blush of triumph.
Slingshot out of shot but simple sheets of innocence which could have been
his shroud enfold the supple muscles of his youth. His knee holds
down the Philistine. The other stands its ground. A finger,
curled as if to flick young David down: a shot at the victor though he’s bound
forever at the foot of the painting.

 

 

The Stars are Fire

To be or not to be? Oh, heart! To pick
apart a work of art. To strike a stick
upon the back of Denmark. Oh, to dream;
perchance to know. The sky burns up
                                                       the street.
Sweet sacrifice; sour sacrilege. God save
the Queen. Poor Shakespeare’s turning in his grave.
Good prince, this house is ours. Gertrude, take it
with a pinch of salt. Stir it, don’t shake it:
you’re no James Bond. Ophelia you cracked,
are cracking, crackling. “Doubt thou the stars are–
The reek of rot from your crimson river
intrudes. Thank god you were pretty. That’s that.
Snap yellow
                       pop
                                Hamlet, charred name in flight.
You die. But never doubt I love, alright?

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