Razorblade Poetry

Razorblade Poetry

  Copyright 2011 Jessica Sutherland

  ISBN: 978-1-4661-1949-9

  This book is a collection of gothic, fantasy, dark, and twisted poetry. It is for myself, and a record of my poetry from journals, free verse, and blogs. I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read my poetry and lyrics. Thank you for your support!

  For the Fishbowl.

  Poems

  Absinthe

  Acidic drips of alcohol slip down my tired throat,

  Succulent flesh still stained with absinthe dew!

  How you remind me of a bitter girl I knew,

  whose body stands downstairs,

  her hair still blonde from years ago when she received

  my ax.

  Her ankles are still twisted amongst the moldy clays,

  and her bare flesh still rotting

  because the body does not earnestly decay.

  I believe you will join her

  in an hour or two.

  My dolls whom I have studied,

  and with poison, murder still!

  My perfect doll collection,

  my morbid satisfaction. Hobbies

  are a gift, methinks, and one does them well.

  You are a prize, and I will bind you in your fairytale.

  Drink your love for me, my doll,

  and come to my room to play.

  Our love here will not last for long,

  at least not yours, I must sadly say.

  My Creepy Bride

  her dress, white, ivory, silver

  tulle and bridal satin

  chiffon and lace

  stained with bright, dark, tell-tale

  decay.

  i like to see her when she walks away

  her hips shifting in a soft sashay,

  down the street.

  my body told me that it wants to have her

  but i held back because i'm just a coward.

  we don't exchange our words

  they're exchangeable for better ones.

  when i put in her in the ground someday

  i hope her blood stains my fingertips forever.

  i want to see her when her dress is off

  and can't hide all her ugly scars.

  she has so many i would never know

  how she goes

  on with the same routine,

  with a dress that hopeless

  brings.

  i cannot see her when she shuts her blinds

  dark widow with her ancient dress, sleepless nights.

  did he love her, i will never know

  all i am sure of is this dagger's cold

  The Waiting Lady

  red, sparkling, glittering and so

  she admires the wine as

  she brings it to her lips.

  holds it there, steady,

  red, deadly, kiss.

  the tablecloth falls over her lap,

  covered in sequins, lace, and

  her hands are folded

  in black, satin gloves.

  she's waited forever to be this

  much in love.

  she stares at the moonlight--

  quickening, silver.

  a face in the window reflects her

  inner, clockwork mind

  pacing itself with demons

  and cogs

  like an unbalanced architect in a mine

  full of coal.

  beating back fires

  that threaten to lose control.

  but she's waited forever

  to be this much in love.

  Tandem

  Together in a factory, they worked with decayed hands,

  gripping onto life with souls as worn as their iron nails.

  Sheets of metal scraped into their bitter hearts like songs

  sung from the sweetest nightingale and flaunted,

  feverish wrongs.

  The wheels turned greedily as skirts and corsets were,

  hourglass, shapely. Bitter and stung.

  Iron and brass, glass and gold

  melted together into one tumultuous soul.

  A woman with heads, her black eyes were two.

  Hands that grasped four scales, and walked in four shoes.

  Skin as pale as an albatross, virgin and whole!

  Her nails though like demons, hissing with purrs.

  The workers cried out their success,

  they had won.

  They had created the perfect Queen,

  a tandem work of art.

  A Queen so fast and wise, none could a-sway her.

  So cruel and wise, so horribly un-wasteful.

  Her iron hands worked to feed the rich and the poor,

  and feed them all to her gold and glass boar.

  The Breath

  I take my time as I walk down the road,

  the wind keeps whistling up my skirt.

  The tulle and lace surround me,

  and the dogwood bleeds for Him.

  I single out a strand of hair,

  long and raven-locked.

  I let it fly out through the winds

  into the eastern worlds.

  Veil, a breath, a tiny whisper,

  float above my milky ear.

  I watch as they scuttle about the ears

  of a leaning white poplar.

  My! how they dawdle...

  Death's lingering breath dwells

  on the backs of my knees.

  And my pupils swell,

  as he summons me.

  So mote it be.

  Ophelia!

  Her hair sinks about her face,

  so hollow!

  Her dress strips itself from her

  wasted waist,

  so hollow!

  I cry her name for she is me,

  and we are hollow!

  What did I do to deserve this hell,

  but swallow a lie I never

  said?

  I am hollow.

  The white dress, lingering with threads

  of golden lies--

  makes me want to slit my wrists...

  ...and perish.

  What glistening bud that sprouts from the

  root of a blackened seed fools her?

  Nothing living,

  but hollow.

  Juggernaut

  Knock, knock, knock.

  A face appeared in my mind, thrusting out its tongue,

  and seducing my soul.

  Wary, I leaped away...I found no comfort there.

  Your pale, terrible face loomed beneath

  the silver, slipping moon. It's surface so far away!

  How I hoped that God would save me,

  that the angels themselves would come,

  taking my fragile bones as dust

  and sprinkle it on the floor for fairy tales.

  Alas, the blackened sores against your flesh rubbed me

  raw.

  Although I could not see Heaven, I could not see Hell,

  and I thought--

  Have I lost paradise?

  Or was it ever mine...

  The heart in my chest beat steadily weaker as it came to terms

  with death.

  Blue lips, cold and colder, wet and slick with slime

  pressed against my bosom.

  Oh! Blind me, blind the gods, blind the clouds,

  blind and blight the sun so that it may never be again!

  But most of all blight the trees, which so desperately

  sway outside my window.

  Sway outside my perfect window like arms and hands

  outstretched for me.

  The creature, its eyes rolling, as it fills itself with sin--

  destroys all of my knowing, as if I had never lived.
>
  So it seems, I never did.

  Cuts so Deep

  Cuts so deep that cracks appear in my skin

  bleed black ink drawn from a needle quill.

  HATE ME,

  LOVE ME,

  BITCH,

  and THIEF.

  I hate myself for most of these things.

  Tear my eyes out! Make me scream

  curses to the glittering stars that stars never see

  over the polluted, light-filled skies of L.A.

  New York. London. Tokyo.

  Filled with my soul, all dank and stretched,

  outnumbered and horror.

  Cut so deep,

  my eyes gauge my sorrow by how far my flesh folds back.

  By how far the stitches in my elbows crack.

  Blood drips from my porcelain skin,

  molded and bolted to perfection.

  I am a doll so deeply consumed in black cars,

  rouge lipstick, vanilla ice cream, tulle dresses,

  fashion spreads...

  but not reality.

  Not the truth--

  Cut so deep,

  I can't ever feel my heart beat.

  It stays there, murmuring whispers into its veins that

  might notice its existence.

  Hard to notice something never there.