Poetry Blogs (Internal)
Rose Casserley on Is it me, or am I now living in a Rumplestiltskin world? (12 hours ago)
Some time ago
My skin turned wooden
My feet moulded into one
And smudged the painted grid
On the marble floor
Another time I fell
And did not stop
I rolled right off the board
It was not a conscious decision
To spectate rather than participate
But it happened
As it does to many
Who give up on giving
When you undertake solely seeing
You relinquish being
But not feeli...
Saturday 21st November 2020 7:27 pm
I know I traded something
A part of me
For the splendid splendour of money
I did that thing you shouldn’t do
I gave myself to him
You know, the soul
Cut a piece of myself out for him
You know, the heart
I cut a piece of myself off for him
(You know which part)
But I didn't feel a thing
I'm waiting to miss it
I'm waiting for the pain
Monday 3rd February 2020 1:43 pm
How many times must I rinse off the moon
And unpeel the stars from my skin?
Have someone ask what were you drinking?
How many times must I try clinging to lamp lights?
Try configuring keys into shining beacons?
I cannot see in the dark
Yes, blackouts steal my sight
But when finished,
I wake up feeling feverish
And fear ferments and festers
The night can be sticky
Monday 13th January 2020 2:41 pm
I am keeping a secret with myself
clutching it within like a bird’s claw,
the carrier pigeons have been shot,
guess I forgot to warn the men with rifles,
suppose it wasn’t a clay pigeon after all.
My mouth is a gold crested envelope,
my lips are licked with wax:
they are an inked kiss,
the pout is the stamp,
my mind is the scroll:
bound and bound,
Tuesday 10th July 2018 2:23 pm
Make me think that the world runs smoother
When all focus
Is on leather and sweat and stink.
Glorious odor that makes the mobius strip slow.
And Ouroborus is Self Fellatio.
My leading member drags me through pigeoned glory holed thoughts.
And I lose
The consideration of purpose
and other abstracts
such as longevity and sustainability in flesh a...
Friday 8th September 2017 6:55 pm
The curtains a cocoon
which I have outgrown
though I dare not venture out
my wings maimed
by an internal eternity.
Some days they open
as the sunlight shines
and snow falls
yet it remains a parallel world
a door to an unfamiliar universe
Even inside plates pile up
like a porcelain possum
Monday 21st January 2013 1:36 pm