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.