Tag Archives: experimental poetry

Beauty and the Psychopath

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The earth’s surface
spans five hundred and ten square kilometres;

its Imperial reach
is one hundred and ninety-six point nine miles;

if every human stood still for one minute
and studied the scene
we might see hunger, iniquity, pain;

we might witness
every kind of suffering

~ this world is too complex to be forever kind ~

yet if we could gaze
with a cleanly aesthetic eye

devoid of empathy
for the frog crushed beneath the boot,

we might find beauty in every millimetre;

we’d envisage beauty
in every razor blade, in every frightened face,
in every tainted pool
that seeps through limp uniform
to sink into the rusting battle field;

it’s easy to appreciate a sunset
or the wavering boughs of a willow tree,

but tucked in a desert

in the arid waste where death exalts,
as, throwing back his cape

he rides the rays of  an allegiant sun
that roasts flesh from hollowing bones, leaving skulls to fade
in shifting hills and sandy vales

there is enchantment, whether scanned
from the height of an aeroplane, or gleaned
through a microscope
as we peek at the secrets of a single grain.

and on a motorway

on a wide tarmac trail
which breaks meadows in its wake,
snaking city limits, displaying the detritus of terminal mishap;
twisted metal, stains left by fractured death
and splattered brains

we find banks piled with riotous harmony
where flowers despised by tidy garden rules
are gems that shine on nature’s winsome breast.

In an iniquitous hidden room

in a bolted cell of jailor’s shame,
dank with acrid stench of psychopaths
intent on tearing sacred, private silk,
raping, molesting, shredding flesh in a hell
where madmen claim the purity of sin
where sadists taste their sour disgrace,
and relishing it, declare it sweet

the stolen one shudders,
her hair matted with filth and tears,
an innocent born with the essence of perfection,
a woman
who grew from woman’s womb.

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This poem has veered a long way from its original intention, but I went with the flow – which suggests that I might be getting back on form 🙂

Note to self; it would require two people for it to work as an orated poem.  Stanzas written in black would be best spoken in a gentle tone; those on the right, by an increasingly threatening one. The purple line in the middle would be spoken in duet.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Private Show

WARNING! DISTURBING CONTENT
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………………daddy
………………….daddy holds
……………………daddy holds a
…………………….daddy holds a private
…………………….daddy holds a private show
……………………………….holds a private show
……………………………………….a private show
………………………………………private show
………………………………………………show

………………………………………………..uncles
…………………………………………..uncles come
………………………………………..uncles come and
…………………………………. ….uncles come and pay
……………………………… …..uncles come and pay to
…………………………………uncles come and pay to see
………………………………………. .come and pay to see
…………………………………. …….  …and pay to see
…………………………………  …………..pay to see
………………………………………  ………..to see
…………………………………………………..see

………………………………………………….my
…………………………………………………my poor
……..;;……………………………………..my poor life
………………………………………….my poor life bleed
………………………………………my poor life bleed away
……………………………………poor life bleed a
……………………………life bleed a……………w
………………….bleed a…………..w…………….a
………………………….w………….a……………..y
………………………….a…………..y
………………………….y
……………………………………………………………..away
………………………………………………………………………

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Written for Michelle’s Photo Challenge, this poem is designed to be uncomfortable and difficult to read, to cause visual distortion, and to shock, since the subject matter is horrific.  

©Jane Paterson Basil

Nectar

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Gone are those bitter years
of crunching pain and shame.
Those twisted years, I was crushed
by every heavy trouble.

Hunched up on hesitant legs
I hunted for shadows to hide in,
or stayed in my cold, lonely room,
that none may see the imagined disgrace
scribbled on my face,
and signed by my children in drug-tinted blood.

The horror of discovery is a spiked,
multi-gloved punch, slamming in from all sides,
attacking every organ, every limb and nerve ending.

It hurts so much everywhere
that you don’t know which bit feels the worst.

If you risk confrontation, you will be unprepared
when they claim it is only play.
You will not be ready
for the fear and impotent rage that may seethe,
clawing at all the places that still ache from shock.
You may say you have seen the needles,
and needles only point one way; to distance and decay.

Still they deny all question, or risk, of addiction.
Indignant, they walk away,
their pace quickened by a need for the next fix.

You scrabble to hatch amateur plans that never reach fruition.

You think nothing will ever hit you as hard as the moment
you first heard the news,
but you soon learn the truth.
It was just the beginning, an introduction…

Addiction is unstinting, unrelenting, indifferent to your suffering.
Addiction never stops giving until it is overcome by will.
Robbery, prostitution, and any way
to find the funds to satisfy the keening need,
fill the addict’s hours and minutes until they cease breathing,
or get so sick of the chilling temptress’s allure
that they are ready to heal.

These days,
these reborn days and weeks,
as he eats, clean food nourishes my healing frame,
as she drinks, fresh fruit sweetens my parched palate.
Overlaid by nectar, the bitter taste fades from memory.

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My daughter has replaced drugs with fresh fruit smoothies. My son has switched to a vegan diet, and become obsessed with healthy food. He may also be in recovery.

The Daily Post #Bitter

©Jane Paterson Basil

Choking on anagrams

drowning.jpg

He dislikes tight, white collared shirts.
Dreaming of Thai tees,
of cotton cooling wild ETSI heat,
he fumbles at his throat ~ tie haste.

Ties heat;
He hates tie, while I hate ties.
I make plans to pay a sea tithe
in pennies of pain.

I hesitate,
then eat heist, choking,
swallowing salt water.

Maybe he cries,
wallowing in self-pity.

 

Written for The Daily post #Hesitate

©Jane Paterson Basil