This Molten Skin

 

   

This molten skin

This slow smouldering from within

 

It starts with an itch

The biting of a small ant

Barely perceived by tender flesh

Its’ shiny black mandibles stuck in my pores

 

Deep within me something stirs

A single bubble comes to the surface & my epidermis shimmers still

Something rises against my will

 

I sweat and my mouth runs dry on the river of desire

I am like a struck match the moment before it catches fire

 

I cannot BARE TO THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE

I AM ALL CONSUMED BY THE FIRES OF MY IMAGINATION

 

I am like primitive childhood art

All red & yellows & splashed oranges

Throbbing, Burning colours pulsing through my heart

 

I am Krakatoa

I am Mt Vesuvius

 

& I feel like I have copulated with the night & given birth to fire & light

like the gods of ancient have chosen me to fuck

& been left exhilarated by my touch

 

burned bright by my humanity

 

illuminated

 

***********************************

 

When I was penning this poem

I wanted people to get an idea of what it feels like when I write.

It’s like I’m tapped into something primal;

connected to the thread of humanity that entwines us all.

I wanted to convey the urgency of it, the breathlessness, the need

I wanted to give a sense of the overwhelming sensuality of it all.

Poetry for me can be best described as a burning orgasm of the brain.   

A delicious manipulation of the cerebrum.

Like sex with an angel on a runaway equine.

 

Dangerous. Out of control.

Sublime