My Heart is Warm


By Louise M.Hart

Melancholy

Please…

 

Spread your wounding comfort blanket

Upon the form that carries my heart

Perpetually in tatters

Forlorn

Because only love matters

And it gathers none

 

I am a malfunction

A cogitative

Breathy

Soul shattered

Aborted foetus

That should never have been

 

My heart is warm

But my body like ice

Repels touch

And drip drips

Fleshy troubles

Beneath cold showered obscenity

Please…

Melancholy

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Taking the P. H. out of Love


For the only man I really loved and

the alcoholic Scottish afternoons, evenings and nights…

I loved him

Like a comfort blanket

I would wrap around me

Twice a week

But the blanket

Cut

Into my flesh

Like the cheap vodka bottles

Whose contents

We projectile vomited

Against a wall

Cracked with my spidery

Web of deceit

And all to prevent us from falling

More deeply

Into reality’s slow waves

Of unreturnable sleep

Every hug

The blanket bestowed

Represented a drink

Poured down my hoary throat

As dry

As a virgin’s quim

Or a mammary gland

No natural man

Could possibly caress

And hardwired to out queer

My more masterful

Sapphic sisters

And the screaming queens

Who were my soul brother’s

Chicken licking lovers

A comfort blanket

Embroidered

With the discarded nails

He plucked

From his outrageously orange

Tinted fingers tips

As he plucked me

The shallow and demanding female

Who roughly stroked his skin

And sucked his bones

Only to please

And manipulate him

I did not even feel his nails

Prick

Me inside

Rather dismissing the blood

I shed

From my womanly empty head

To the rosy pink tips

Of my inverted toes

And MY tits

With an extravagant

Swish of the hand

Of every unwanted thought

I fought to valiantly dismiss

The kisses I imparted

Were shaped

For the delectation

Of another’s lips

For, though my heart lightened

In his presence

It burned in hers

She did not break it

It was I who reached inside

My own compliant chest

And withdrew

The essential organ

Of all hope and penetrable pleasure

At the height

Of a micro second of time

When I realised

That I could never

Love his kind, again

And thus, never did

The Revelation


I stand upright on revelation hill
When Prometheus descends
Flaying his flaming hair
His body is soul personified
He arrives on a chariot of silver clouds
That glide through the air
Like angel’s distant cries
Around his neck, he wears a wreath
Of human hair
Seized from dead men’s chests
Dressed in perfectly pressed
Violets
And sick charcoal leaves
His smiles
Slowly
Give way to grief
Silent as silk
I hear him calling
On revelation hill
The grass has eyes
And lips that bleed
Like cherry wine
And Prometheus holds a torch
Whose inherent flame
Dances
To the shapes
Of the letters of my name
The flame consumes my being
From head to toe
Until my mind radiant with heat
And mightily aglow
Surrenders like a moth
To a glare of light
Revealing my destiny
With a quake and the power
Of renewed insight
Before me stand gargantuan doors
I open them, in pursuit of a cure
And contemplate
Whether any other human form has lived to see
The vision that projects to me
Made from ivory and gold
The doors of perception
Reach from the sky to the ground
And the trees are bare
From the waist down
Wasting down to the ground.