Two Poems
by Anthony Beal
...
Her Assassin's Tender Stroke
Turn toward me once more before the frost.
Bribe me briefly.
Scald me with tears.
Burn me down from the inside.
Deceive me, grieving for the crutch I hold so
dear
And miss as much as the winding tracks
You used to etch so exquisitely
Across my thighs, my back, my jugular.
Come after me again.
This time I could relent.
This time perhaps I'd kneel;
This one time. One time.
One, damn you.
But if your hand does not unfold, you will never
know,
And I know you want to know.
I know you want to chew me ragged.
I would let you if I get my way.
Lay down your sword and give me life.
Suck me into those smoked-glass planets
And inject me as I fall
With that brand of wanton, smirking misery
Which has always helped me sleep.
It matters not if you abhor me,
So long as you cauterize the wounds you inflict,
So long as you forego the masquerade.
I could grow accustomed to kneeling.
I suppose I could. If you made me.
Step closer to me now.
A little more. Closer, dear.
Perfect. Perhaps you do care.
Now, spit in my face like you used to,
And come into me, angel.
...
Bound
The corset, inlaid with barbed wire
Stitched lovingly into its spines,
Masks her pain by night,
But she knows it is there on blue days.
Loved, or so the story goes,
Shining wetly by the light of eyes that napalm
her flesh,
Baring bones that smolder when touched.
Feared as living lightning she implodes in search
of sacraments,
Collecting sandcastles, bringing them in from
the rain.
Borne on dripping wings,
Slick wings that spasm and stretch
With the arching clutch of her care,
They clamor for the looking glass
With her sweat upon their brows.
Devoured, inch by inch,
Spread and eaten
The way children savor sticky things,
The way cherished things always taste sweetest
When melting and running down the chin
To be lapped away at leisure,
Or photographed and sold.
The disembodied tongue,
The suicidal flight rouses her out of basements,
Into drafty dungeons that stink of tears
And shattered delirium.
Fingers in fishnets,
Stilted and sleek,
A twisting sojourn
Through veils and beads and black silk robes,
Damning the eye that dares to blink.
Bathed in shades of vindication.
A scorching climb,
Like scotch-soaked berries pressed to the lips
of a person bound.
...
Copyright © 2001 Anthony Beal.
All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express
written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.
Anthony Beal lives in New York. He's an erotic-horror
writer and poet whose short fiction has appeared in such online publications
as Dark Muse, Terror Tales, and House of Pain. His poetry has appeared
in such print magazines as Mojo Risin', The Ultimate Unknown, and The Nocturnal
Lyric, and online with Dark Moon Rising Magazine and Fear of the Dark Webzine.
Forthcoming works will appear in Cthulhu Sex Magazine and Space and Time
Magazine. Email
Anthony Beal.
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