La Petite Mort of Creativity

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Let me bleed out a moment’s release,

from this contemptible inner peace.

 

my tears are too clear of midnight ink,

my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.

 

I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,

for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar

 

I churlishly spread my coquettish legs

seducing any passing stranger’s death.

 

To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,

so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath

 

I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,

traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.

 

I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return

to break open my heart, leave me spurned,

filling this barren womb with words

that haven’t been born, read, or heard.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Benediction

 

He was her all black and blue

He was her every backward move

 

Bitten lips, sugar swollen tongues

unable to breathe, only to succumb

 

Wild-rose rush, indecorous release

bewildered by being hostage beneath

 

Afterwards, he whispers her to him:

“You are so loved,

you are so loved.”

 

© Katypoetess 2015

The Gentleman and the Gypsy

 

Hunting

 

Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches

scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,

trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.

 

Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –

pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,

skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.

 

Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek

need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,

wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.

 

Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,

tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads

sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daises to caravan of calling

 

He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,

“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying

to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”

 

Shooting

 

Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.

Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides

her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home

 

Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption

in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.

He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.

 

She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.

Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.

Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.

 

Slowly the revered curse of middle aged folly bears a gallant courtship

of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.

Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.

 

Fishing

 

Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.

Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.

Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.

 

Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,

but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into

caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daises once again.

 

In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,

he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine and their fortunes aligned

The circling raven caws an oath to them both – “So mote it be, so mote it be.”

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

 

 

Beholden to Behind

 

A thumb – intently placed on chin

caressing every freckle into a letter

that spells out a story blushing lips

that remand and remade the ending

 

Forefinger – smoothing the jaw

straight as lines read and re-read

he turns her over like a page

his favourite fable, every inch

a mythology of unreason.

 

Genteel palm – perfectly placed

on ripened white, depressing spine

into maidenly goading of docility.

Two hearts, to start – a beautiful violation

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

Marking Time

 

That mark upon your back is finally fading
in the way our memory will,
of that night our lust wouldn’t wait for bed
so laid us out upon the floor instead
where we worked up that scar –
two tattered flags flying from your spine’s mast,
a brand-burn secret in the small of your back.

I trace them now and feel the distrurbance again.
The still waters of your skin broken, the volte engaging
as we made our marks like lovers who carve trees,
the equation of their names equalled by an arrow
that buckles under time but never leaves,
and so though changed, under the bark, the skin,
the loving scar remains.

 
Owen Sheers

Gentleman Caller II

 

He declares white drops of silken grace

over her face and faint flamed strands

falling disobediently from her submission.

Beguiling the scent of her sticky humility,

He smears her readiness on her lips while

untying restraints and kissing every mark

the love has made. Raising her chin, he

teases her yearning, “Did you miss me?”

Picking up his car keys, he calls time again.

Their eyes both shine twilight, and she smiles.

 

© Katypoetess  2015

 

Just For Today

 

Just for today I don’t want to write, tidy up, wash clothes, anticipate future

and ponder past prose.  My pretty little cunt wants to escape to a simple,

sweet subservience in a place where no one knows about my non-existence.

 

I want to be fed, taught, posed, pushed and pulled with or without clothes

gently abusing the ghost that embers in my heart.  I want to be told to get

dressed or undressed, sit and rest, ready to be photographed when asked.

 

A studio above rooftops that holds light, and no downward flight that spirals

towards pain and blackness in my mind. To be with or without care about what

I feel or what fate holds. To be the model and the muse. To let go. Just for today.

 

© Katypoetess  2015

 

Voyeur

 

 
Moon beckons a beacon for the night demon’s path.
Comfort strewn by creaks of cooling corners in the bedroom.
Dutiful goodnight kisses obligate a renewed commitment
to freshly etched, stone set commandments of the marriage rite.

Left alone, he clicks familiar websites, browsing history
carefully kept out of sight. Easing tension transiently until eyes
hit on a caress of photo exhibited heedlessly. Reality battles virtuality
as thoughts slowly unzip the mask which slips silken to floor.

He fumbles to unclasp the clips to cyberstrip his Jezebel
who exists no more. As he closes his eyes, two knights collide,
twilight pain whipped alive again. It feels right, this hardcore
shame where he clamours death’s toll of Lilith’s liberation.

Lilith locks her front door, scurries upstairs. Scanning sky
for moon’s position, her brow furrows at full dominant shine
onto cunny musked sheets that arouse him. She remorsefully
shakes her head at the calling of her name within the silence.

Hot shiver – against eyes that she cannot see, but hold her
in gaze of violence of tormented past and mist a certain future.
This nyctophilic nymph lies down on stake of anhedonia,
praying for a peaceful sleep on splintered bed of obsession.

Anxious, as she blushes drowsy, his recurrent, fevered
subjugation returns. Feather of nightmares that tender a sting
more than any crop. He binds red thread round each wrist,
tying her tight, taking refuge in her secluded humiliation.

All his loss, his gain, his forthcoming pleasure and perpetual
pain dwells in her delirium. Dangering heavy on her solitude,
watching her scream his screams, weep his tears for him
as he is muzzled and mislead by promise of marital monogamy.

He pushes his hardened possession into her, so subtle, so gently,
so not to disturb her memories of a broken heart. “I want the control”
he whispers. She semi-swoons a protest, but her unconscious
relinquishes all resistance. He knows, she is his again.

Hydropic yearning spreads herself to drink his flamboyant lechery.
A salacious slave of his command to enter evergreen eden.
He ritualizes a devotional crucifixion with slow tender touch,
writing a sonnet on her breasts and raising her hips to his rhythm.

She licks and stokes abyss between who he thinks he should be
and who he really is. Caressing every conflict, nuzzling neuroses
acted out in careless words of sin. Prudently, he threshes her thighs
in carnal vexation, every lash a fight against his compulsion.

“Let me go”, she pleads as he rollicks rough her ruffled long strands
of auburn on pillow. He pursues to violate her with his melody,
“You will always be mine”. A jealous bite of erotomania that brings
them to obscene symphony, cadenced by her faithful cries.

He fades as she wakes, wet confusion blurs night into day.
Taste on lips she cannot place. Night visions flush fixation that fervid
villain will return to reclaim his Juliet of dark tragedy. Committed
to Magdalene asylum, she rattles the bars on her window, awaiting a rescue.

 

Voyeur, from “Of Lilith and Anthony” – © Katypoetess 2013

 

Tryst

 

Cuffed and collar’d – not entirely wedded n’ bound

Retaining strength with freedom recently found

In gallant splendour of posies he dutifully bade

She became his princess, and nonchalant maid

 

She washed away his tears with sweat of sin

An’ hell coloured hair that whipp’d his skin

Oh scornful mistress! How can you chide and glow?

Because, she smiled, that’s the way troubadour goes

 

Excerpt from “Tryst” © Katypoetess 2014

Creativity and Anxiety

 

Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.

 T.S.Eliot

 

Is it a myth that poets have to be at the depths of despair and depression, or high on mood or various stimulants to create their best work?

I do not believe that anxiety is the only key to unleashing creativity within.

A stable state of mind just changes your approach to writing. The best poets and writers had enough stability, whether fleeting or substantial, to provide accessible and readable work that appeals to many people rather than creating such personal verse that no one can understand or relate to.

I started writing my first poetry collection “Of Lilith and Anthony” while in a state of post traumatic stress but I finished it when recovered and a lot happier, and that I believe is the formula for writing good poetry.

It may take more time, but it’s worth the effort.  Leaving space between your first anxious draft of verse and writing your final more reflective one can make all the difference to its success.

Find out more how this can work….

 

 http://www.amazon.co.uk/Lilith-Anthony-Katypoetess-ebook/dp/B00LE4Q73K/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410384378&sr=8-1&keywords=of+lilith+and+Anthony

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Poetic submission?

 

“Keep me rather in this cage, and feed me sparingly, if you dare. Anything that brings me closer to illness and the edge of death makes me more faithful. It is only when you make me suffer that I feel safe and secure. You should never have agreed to be a god for me if you were afraid to assume the duties of a god, and we know that they are not as tender as all that. You have already seen me cry. Now you must learn to relish my tears.”

Pauline Réage:  Story of O

 

Maybe submission to emotion, as well as to a lover can inspire poetry……

 

 Poetic submission?

 

Gentleman Caller

 

Never expect but always must anticipate

Children now asleep, I am freshly bathed

His fantasy diverting to an eager soliloquy

Gentleman caller

raps my door delicately

 

Dutifully agitated into dazed acquiescence

He thrusts me forward, a quickening zealous

One hand over mouth, other girdles my belly

Gentleman caller

then politely assaults me

 

I turn on kettle as he retreats from my thighs

Thirst now quenched in this arduous night

Shivered sticky heat departs my skin freely

Gentleman caller

demurely drinks his tea

 

Mug carelessly discarded by cold kitchen sink

For morning to remind me of where he has been

Abandoning mistress with torn, tainted nightie

Gentleman caller

hastily takes his leave

 

 

 

© Katypoetess 2013

Of Lilith and Anthony e-book available soon!

 

Of Lilith and Anthony

It’s almost done.  I am just waiting for the ISBN number and my first poetry collection will be available from Amazon.  It’s taken me two years, but it’s been worth it.  The collection consists of sixty-nine poems, telling the story of a love affair of obsession and romantic tragedy. Watch this space, and an official announcement that it’s available to download will soon follow….

Homecoming

 

Awaited awakening

loose lipped, tight tipped

Injecting deep into me

formaldehyde of jealousy

 

Rhythmic warm chill

presses on pulsating throat

sticky skin anoints

soothing balm of obssession

 

Surrender fills silence

thighs pillow dormant anger

your cunning apology

having resentfully missed me

 

tendrilled fingertips weave

careless laced crimson strands

tentative anxious bite

into embalmed grey shoulder

 

Revived and resurrected bride

absorbing your milky zenith

reclaims me spellbound

tearing the cobwebs inside

 

 

© Katypoetess 2013

Banished to Eden

 

We blend into each other’s colours

begging serpent’s curiosity of insidious skin.

Sullen hand removed, reveals scars in their beauty

motherhood replaced by conjured virgin within

 

Love’s chameleon tongues a hedonism

anxious lips kiss curved ribs appled in eye

pole dancing a Jacob’s ladder of debauchery

“Don’t move” you cry, and I’m flung far and wide

 

Pulse thumped throat tightens, maddens,

desire’s fury to open violent playpen of lust

salivating our self absorbed paradise

brutish tender tones surprise with every push

 

Thumb in mouth. I suck hard, forsaken

and you greedy yourself in insatiableness

bruised by a ruse that love has no bounds

I am freed from my untamed contrariness

 

Defiantly swaying velvet to centre stage

I ride you deeply in transient dominance

gently to the back and front of your mind

lace and ribbons untangle any resistance

 

Climax flushes dapple of leo constellation

a delicacy radiates an interstellar delight.

Starcrossed, I’m miraged by your poetry

that one day you could be mine, despite.

 

Bright blue eyes disguise dark in sky

we lie in guileless romantic tension.

Later, indulged, I sleep tight in your arms,

a perpetual night of sexual possession.

 

 

© Katypoetess 2013

 

The Cottage

 

Completely captive, liberated and free

Thick damp walls are constraining me

Shrouding, chilling my pale virgin skin

I kneel at the hearth’s grey altar within

Black blood of ghosts run down set stone

Displaying anger against intrusion below

As one of them passes by from the past

“Do you like living with me?” you ask

 

Simple domesticity lies at our hand

Isolation and introspection does command

A love not in pieces, but just in peace

All fighting and triviality here must cease

Shadows of wedlock that have passed before

Chastise material desires and pour scorn

On our shallow perceptions of what is adversity

It’s no comparison to their suffering and poverty

 

Bright thin streams of the morning light

Still don’t quite reach upstairs night

Full of forgiveness, the crows cry out

Fire burns away the embers of doubt

Quiet warmth of bonding here with you

Sounds of nothing resonate through

Lost souls opposed thrown back to the past

Slowly found again, understanding at last

 

Joining my worship in brazen nakedness

Pushing heat inside my wanton tenderness

Blessed amongst peat, coal and dirt

Faithful in fragility, love is spent and inert

Drifting through, they don’t punish our sin

Listening as we confess, indulge and redeem

The intrusion is reborn, a circle of collusion

We bury ourselves in its beautiful absolution

 

© Katypoetess 2013

 

First Taste

 

 

Warmth rising with my kisses

Shivering your belly softness

And downwards I go

Your hand, tangled tight

In my red messy tresses

Pulse in your wrist

Rhythmic against my neck

I tilt my head upwards

Mouth teasing and begging

for the very scent of you

eyes briefly meet in expectation

And even lower I go

As I’m eager for the first taste

 

© Katypoetess 2013

 

 

 

 

 

Anthony and Katypatra

 

 

I arrive. Quickly turning bedroom from Rome into Alexandria.

Skin up, pop cork to dilute our blood with Bollinger.

Determined to mix up a confidence to conquer,

goddess summoning up a strip tease of your morality.

 

“The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet’s fool.”*

 

Coiling concubine – arabesque around your thighs to nourish exotic fantasy.

Arching precision that brushstrokes sorcery onto chest and fever the soft hair below your belly.

Teasing out your sacred melancholy, never leaving each others gaze.

 

“There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.”*

 

Your angel, your nemesis – drip feeding you decadence.

I’m watching your concentration, my inspiration a Sahara

of aspiration as you write. You listen only to your own thoughts,

I triumph in cruel comfort of living the low life with you.

 

“O! my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten”*.

 

Montage of limb upon limb, we snuggle idle – licking,

mewling as Persian kittens wrapped in each others paws.

Your kingdom falls into a Nile of our new found innocence

equating to divine forever. Content and wonderfully misspent.

 

“Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows bent”.*

 

Keeping temple open – you compulsively worship through Sunday.

Seductive flush of an asp’s curse onto suburban empire.

Bequething a purulent wound, I scratch hieroglyphics on your back.

Your fallen one, juxtapose all shades of crimson and gold. I leave.

 

“He’s speaking now, or murmuring ‘Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”*

 

*Shakespeare – Antony and Cleopatra

© Katypoetess 2013

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