Molecules for the Blacklight

This isn’t my pen,
someone stole my pencil,
My thoughts are caged
in empty milk cartons
ready to post
“wanted” pictures
made from trace.
Tattered and torn
half arsed ink stains
I write in vain.
The butler stole my
tea, gave me toast
buttered both sides
then dropped me
from the greatest height
My ego has a pain
My heart refuses
now to beat
My soul, deciding
it’s a game,
gave up trying
to be brave.
Reality is a blast
bound in kinky,
curly leather
straps, molecules
for the black light
and rancid eyes
watching,
waiting,
praying…
This isn’t my pen
sticky fingers
and licking tongues
toxify my ink
with fugu juice
injecting the heart
vain, hooked up
to the needle
dulling, nullifying,
I’ve sent her into excile
Coventry for lovers
abandoned my muse
to the dungeons
for her crimes
but the prissy little
bitch, took all
my fucking lines…
Now my ink is going limp
erectile dystunction
without the blue pill
I’m just another writer
stuck between the trees
with nothing to say
just words to up and kill….

Karen Hayward © 2018
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Shattering essence of voice

For a fleeting moment space was mine
designed beyond sight
Vulnerability of heart, takes flight
as thought and words soon fly.

If asked, I’d sit three seats to the left
Somewhere between here and mars
I’d converse silently, just me and the stars
and declare my wishes to skies of dark.
It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

Those twinkling lights have long known your name,
In twilight battles to drive the devil insane
I tell Selene my secrets
I’m not sure she hears and never certain it matters…

I’m not always sure anything matters Living seems only to flatter
We’re specks trying to etch our names into the infinite
spending lifetimes searching
hopelessly for the lost scent of a love we once had
And in the grander scale of things

…I’m never certain that anything matters

Then he whispers and my darkness shatters.

Karen Hayward © 2018

To Purge, to purge, to purge

Some people eat to purge
They devour platefuls of
Love, spoonfuls of hate
Bowls spilling with disgust.

Some, drink vodka, gin
Whiskey and bottled beer
Swigging back pain
Sipping on indifference.

For some, it is one more
run, sprinting back the tears
Curling the fears, stretching
the broken fragments clear.

I purge on the dark recesses
of my skull, pull away at
silver threads, devouring
memories made to break.

I lose myself in the silence
of melancholy let it swim
naked through my veins
Tearing me with each stroke.

I let each one fall, tasting the depth
of their essence, let it
ricochet through me in
forgotten undertones of being.

I purge myself through the
Lost memories of my ancient
voice, capturing them within
A moment, then release,
as my lungs breathe and my
eyes smart at the purging.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Howling call of night…

I hear the howling winds they drag me from my slumber,
Trees screaming, leaves pleading, debris flying,
Rain falling, heavy, denting, slamming on windowpane,
Where now is Selene among this raging storm,
I search for calm and find only the descent of
crimson mist, I search for light… But the soul craves darkness
Which has long arrived, I search for hope but Pandora
was left astray, unlocked…
I hear the startling call of objects dragged through
the storms mouth, teeth bared, blood dripping,
I hear the emptiness of atoms
the raging storms of nature
the familiarity of night
sat alone, as insomnia
Kisses away the shadows
that haunt.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Graphite girl…

She was graphite, rough and raw.
She’d erase rough lines of guidance,
use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk,
how not to cry,
when not to break.
She’ll sit up into the wee twilight
Hours curving letters across
nipples pert bud,
gently caressing sensuality,
as the sharpened pencil defines
contours of need,
black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips.
Blurred definitions
tainted revelations
deceitful realisations
Graphite creations… how she pondered
now the way we draw our lines
in pencil, temporary markings
leaving a gentle trail
of destruction across
naked bodies beneath Lunar glows
Wild oats, taken, made and sown
Pick ups and throws…
The allure of graphite, need
erased, redrawn… Redrawn.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

Grandmother Beldam

#wordprompt#beldam

Rot mutating at the very core
churning entitlement disease
an epidemic of waste, as eyes
die and skin becomes mottled.
Souls decaying between the
silent beats of a ravaged war
whilst ancient wisdom falls
from the page one letter at a
time. The conceptualisation
of ideology lost in the sphere
of thought. I am, I must,
I therefore… We have become
the beldam of humanity,
with blind eyes, scarred
hearts and jars of pickled
morals aside our broken values
left to soak in the bitter tincture
of ego blessed in whispered
incantations of pride.
Yes. Humanity is this worlds
Beldam.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Sung beneath my stars

…so it’s 6:00am, vodka knows your name and in the devils hour guilt whispers back your shame and so it is you plead, strumming fingers till they bleed, don’t you worry bout the distance
you sing between the tears. And fragments they have shattered yet you’re singing that I matter. Vodka rushes down and words begin to slur, the line that we had drawn has once again become so blurred. So you sing, songs of old and new, on the guitar that you do play you whispered on my sunrise, that our future is okay…and hey there Delilah you tell me in the dark… Hey there Delilah, you sung beneath my stars.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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