Sunday, December 27, 2009

Blood drunk

There wasn't any pain,
no prickle,
nor a tickled pink,
just this worldly feeling
of being pried
to a softer bed,
while twin fangs sank in
and rosy drew out
mere droplets,
planted by the shy
sun's unclotted gleam.
Its golden streams
pulled from primped-up flesh
to fill crimped-down bellows
till they bulged
bronze and round.

There isn't any pain,
no struggle,
nor a muddled shout,
just this bleary-eyed dream
of being led
to a slate-gray patch,
where blood-drunks dodder
and bloated belch forth
queer seedlings
that root at the stray
day's rolled-up edges.
Their crimson creeps
stopped by simple smacks
to spill pimpled oozings
till they sag,
flat and black.

5 comments:

Cynthia said...

jenny, you have such a beautiful,
unique, sensual way of writing
about nature.

Megan said...

So many gorgeous lines and sounds in this poem. I especially love:

"Its golden streams
pulled from primped-up flesh
to fill crimped-down bellows
till they bulged
bronze and round."

Also

"the stray
day's rolled-up edges."

Very well done, Francis.

Jenny said...

Cynthia,

It was Francis who wrote this great poem. So I cannot take credit for it.

Francis,

I like the whole piece a lot. Especially the last four lines.

Ande said...

Powerful lines.

Akeith Walters said...

Strong, sensual words. An enjoyment to read.