Sanguine Poetry

By: Angel

starving artist?

yes,
I am.

but what other rescue have I
from an insufferable eternity of 
venomous fuck yous or
disgusted you’re not welcomes?

each word stabs 
psychedelics
into my tortured, beaten soul;
each shooing gesture grows 
a thorn in my pin-pricked
weed-ridden heart;
each prophesied year passes 
surely by, bloodying my eyes while
Worry swells around them
like storm clouds congregating—
there’s more with every hour. 

with hidden face,
the empty streets I wander,
the voices praying that I still remain 
in sterile absence of a loving touch. 

yet I resist—
I beg for safety with an open palm,
my fingers trembling 
as I am once again ignored. 

survival is accepted
to only those who wander surely;
but I am only 
sure of my unsureness—

each day I’m waiting
to erase
my face
for the sake of something beautiful. 

and yet, dismissed I am
a thousand times before
I finally am ruined,
My body buzzing 
every strike of lightning 
into blind submission—

you finally made history!
thanks to your breadcrumbs,
my frost-ridden fingers
for once can sense a fire plopped gently 
into 
their ice-bitten midst. 

and,
as an eternity of pain should command,
you make my wanting full:
I’m slurping up your kindness,
Your sweet nothings, bowls of soup
Convincing me how much you’d do
to keep me warm and fed— 

whispers of how much this city
would be empty
without another’s pleasant touch. 

but then,
as an eternity of pain should command, 
you vanish, never to be seen again,
leaving a defenceless shell of a 
once-mighty soldier 
to roam lonely through the night. 

rejoice! you have successfully affirmed that empty, e
ven though a burden,
is still much better  
than a soul that’s ripped into shreds. 

I am now no longer worthy
of your admiration:

I am a rifle 
without any gunpowder;
I am a monolith 
without any creatures to worship me;
I am a heart
without any structural integrity-
my collapse shudders through me,
sickening and deadly,
as I splinter, clean, in two. 

oh… indeed, you imbecile!
oh, I am starving!

my ink is screaming 
through my palms,
my pent up vengeance gathering—
a monster in my throat declaring 
war 
against your degradation!

my tongue is thrashing
in my mouth—
a moat to lock in decades
of cruelty you find unseemly. 

but really… 
if your obsession with decorum
reaches like a phallic symbol
up with vanity towards the sky…

then who indeed would truly want the art 
of a man, 
full and sated, 
like you?