harpies

Tugging at my shoulder
soft hands turn to claws
that seep in
refusing to release me
… fading
your fragrant breath
on the nape of my neck
sweet roses and pink flesh
then something else
washes it away
a biting smell
pungent
over ripe cheese
… gagging
place your lips there
just under the ear
then with the tip of the tongue
trace the contour down
to my neck
leave me panting, gasping
as you bite
razor sharp and precise
a cherry sundae
… draining
dizzy now and reeling
there’s little left of me
you’re pale and bloodless
I as well
yet you’re hot to touch
too hot, and smooth
the pain you invoke
excruciating, pleasurable
it’s all okay up to a point
it’s when the gentle purring
leaves
the song stops
a last call
that’s when I hear it
the screeches
three wild screeches
wild bird calls
craven calls
that rip me apart
… dying
a bird attack
high pitched and piercing
there’s more to you
than the surface
that damn song
can’t you bring it back
… no
predatory female spirits
fluttering
always a price to pay.

– matt at shadowofiris

harpies

catastria

How many souls
out there drifting
a billion
eight billion
I took the path less chosen
I found myself
shoulder to shoulder
with one hundred thousand others
barely able to breath
crowded out
utterly the same
my deepest thoughts
not deep at all
repeated in my clones
I shouted
free me
and the echo was maddening
give me a life
a differentiation
I’ll be a single point
a derivative off the line
a meaning, a thread, a possibility
a light at the end of the tunnel
a way out
that’s not a rejection
or
a renunciation
.
like this
.
catastrophic
catastrophia
catastria
catastrophe
catastrophic mass extinction
riding the bomb down
as my soul struggles with itself
an amorphous paradoxical picture
a Möbius strip
from above I see her
her copper hair flowing in the wind
on the hill
she stands alone
and in all the world
her beauty pales all else
purity so profound
it disturbs
beauty so breathtaking
it annihilates
my whole soul
holds together on a single point
that point
a naked belief
unadorned by ribald
vacant rational wit gone
she is my god now
driving me forward toward her
but isn’t it too late now
the ferocity of the attack
the numbers of my speculations
the complexity of the calculations
all of it a contradiction of dialect
a degeneration
she casts her lovely eyes down
demure
her ample breasts
bathed in the moonlight
shine.

– matt at shadowofiris