Young Writers Society

I hope your weapons have been sharpened and shined.
(Note, rated as a precaution)

As I said, I write a poem, and you play off of it.
And it continues until someone admits defeat.
Perhaps it'll never end.

Let's get started.

I found regret at the back of my drawer
next to chipped china cups.
I wish I could white wash overused things
and paint them again.

I drank whiskey from the teacups yesterday
and cut my lips.
I bet you didn't know lips are white
when they're drained.

The river is cold, but the day is long;
or so thought the girl in the green
as she washed the shards of shattered glass
of teacups, down by the stream.
And the stains were all but forgotten
on the porcelain once so white
scrub 'till your fingers are bleeding
and blood is a stain in the night.

Static from the TV sounds like
glass might shatter
and burst her eardrums.

I bet right now,
she's wondering what atoms do
when they're overheated.

The words are like
so many so many needles
over time, they burst the flesh
and like needles, sew lies
deep into her eardrums
so sad, really.
She'll never hear that the thread is the wrong colour.

Needles are soft things,

I think.

They threaded my heart back together
and strung it up in my chest
after it rolled out the door,
and I can hear them say -
loopholed words.
"Perhaps without the anesthesia?"

Threads start to pool at my feet,
Strings of her heart.
I sew them back together,
but stay they will not.

Tears fill the empty bowl,
I hold under her head,
And I tell her, "Not here, Mary, not here.
Take your crying elsewhere."

The bowl, once empty,
is now filled with holy water
Jesus, it's beautiful.

What would be more pure
than the tears of a virgin?
Jesus, she's beautiful.

And the church is quiet
and her screams are muffled.
Jesus, it's beautiful.

You always used to clean the bowls when they were empty.
Scrubbed them until your fingers cracked in half
and the paint from them peeled off.

We're nothing but porcelain and marrow underneath
and sometimes I wished I'd fixed you
before your rib cage started to rattle.

The little crib
is trimmed with cracked velvet.
And the little fists
reach out of the darkness
and they shake
as if asking
why? why?
is my rattle made out of bones?

When things shake, you remain still

when things are still -
youcannothelpbut
t e b e
. r m l

No, no, I don't fear the man in the black suit.
I find his brimstone glare a comfort.
His dapper ways enchant me.
No, no, my love, don't shake.
It does no good to tremble before him.

you set your suit aside,
for a brush and a girl.

Now the brush is frayed like nerve ends
and your suit is nowhere to be found.

Vertigo, you devil.
I told you I wanted none of your gut-wrenching favours
Or your promises, fragile as the frayed rope
that holds us together.
Oh, you think I cannot see-
that you've at last popped my eyes
so much like the cherries in your neatly tailored hand.
Don't be so sure, love.
I've got your blue eyed boy yet.

There are glassy eyed things
I like to collect,
and wrap in dry pressed linen.
I get them in letters without a return address.

One time I split one open
and poured the contents out,
it looked like a mess of being
and copper tasted blood.