Skin Storm.

Beauty only plays at night
when lights are dimmed,
perpetuated by lover’s blindfolds
longed for in dreams
rapid eye movement stifled

Lines carved from age
crease the tear’s reservoirs,
clotted nails strewn across flesh
aching for touch to embrace
pity born of the reflection

Virus like it crawls beneath
scurries from left to right,
wields ten knives reaping
the reward, layers of meat
the pleasure endorsed by pain

The sheets are a murder scene
rippled in rustic red,
encrusted to the torso,
limbs like layer cake sliced
freshly fried upon puss pots

With dawn braking I lie tight
motionless and tired,
solitary droplets sit fully formed
atop my bloodied craters
eager for the night.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Marooned.

Eons apart, fabled fates collide
within the cesspool of my mind,
digits flit across the eye line
of night, etch our descent,
decipher the meaning of life.

Tall tales torment every child
caress the tears of dreams torn,
the innocent glance holds
my heart, burdened with fear,
motionless, without answers.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Whispers.

Demented fog fills the void
your innocent mind,
bequeathed to me
the day you dined,
your glass skin petrified
eyes fixated divine.

The crack of bone
spliced in honour, for love,
my right hand
cradling her throat
the left drove home
hate instilled
from the age of nine.

Dripping from the casket
of our belligerent mother,
her prayer
forgiveness blind,
her frail limbs slumped
eyes shut tight.

I smiled at my design.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Lost.

Words wander the mind’s wasteland
congregate by the wayside,
peer through windows
at each and every one of us.

Meaning ebbs from blinded eyes
deafening silence echoes off the page,
aching for the quill to scratch it’s itch
pleading for the ink to flow.

Hear the melody hurt with beauty
black and ivory entwined,
the encore of what once was
and here she lies, fading embers.

Severance upon the lips of passer-by’s,
no click, click, click of keys
tapping out the ultimate demise
as sadness haunts the betrayed.

Steeples fall without grace or virtue
cobwebs weep with the touch of rain,
the wind ceases to howl
leaving nothing but an empty landscape

Lost.

© 2009 Michaela James.

On Ice.

I watch the glass ease
so easily half empty
a picturesque delusion
of happiness, mocking
as the second hand floats
slowly by stuttering at twelve,
my shutters blurring

the consequence of who I am

the solitary figure fatigued,
every word dispensed
twenty yarns ago unheard

tears dissipate
desert my sodden sleeve

run faster than every human
being I have touched

my awkwardness laid lame
beneath the star I long for

the temptation of the gutter
embraced childlike
I dance the forbidden route,
walking the lush green mile
hand in hand with you
my eager saviour, servant
to the night we will always be.

© 2009 Michaela James.

"Exit."

The slip of your delicate frame cavorts with demons,
strokes shadows of the moon
skipping through ether,
one step, two step
shuffling clouds
like a deck of cards
collapsing through time.

I light a cigarette
inhale fumes of death
enriched with arsenic,
breathe through rustic nostrils

my voice aching with every murmur

"I will follow, soon,
once the drip, drip, drip subsides."

My eyes look deeper

and you have gone

but so have I,
down the corridor and a taxi home.

I pour a bourbon and smile,
look to the mirror
choose not to cry

but enjoy the moment
tomorrow's end
and all she will bring.

© 2008 Michaela James.

The Attic.

Rumours abound deep within
hollow cries of yesteryear,

shackle
the truth,
fear

the embrace.

The monotonous rain congealed,
each drop splays the floor
in sequence

the chimes of the clock
mocking all who sleep below.

Time ravages all who come to pass
yet welcomes with a splendid hello

for here lies hell
the prison of my mind
uncontrolled

I and I alone.

I pace once a year through empty spaces,
banging my head against their door

the momentary shadow
talks to me
as I watch from the attic window.

I am the sequence of events
murdered in dreams,
the black and white smudged

inherited from demons long settled.

The caricature of life
captured by the lonely descent
of every passer-by

their prayers unanswered
laced with venom

choked by lore and prose

their God in my hands
as I sever each throat

including my own.

©2008 Michaela James.