// heathens //

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A lady in black holds herself up, eyes wide, wet, wild, the blood throbbing in her sex ruptures the sky into vast pulsing waves through webs of liquid stars, spinning in endless expansion. She is the universe groping desire from every angle. She is the thin movement of air, she is the legs of the needs inside you suspended, withering figures tangled in trees.

Pleasure, pain, writhing, and you on your knees. The night grows hungry for itself.

I play with the words and let them seduce me, slender light and the pale gray shadows of bodies on the wind, blown from the corners of my buried mind: paper dolls shaped like me but someone forgot to cut out the bones. Skeletons dressing in my skin, a row of street lamps exploding in slow motion; shattered and exposed we are made to collect our own pieces, float like angels on the tops of bare trees.

The shakes of restlessness would eat you alive so we carve hearts in the sidewalk with pocketknives and promise to walk until the end of time.

Every footstep interrupts the pattern, the world is dying in our punctured hands as we become reluctant symbols of the future of those who don’t believe we’ll make it.

The cold and the pavement and you’re getting tired and the smoke between your teeth is the taste of orgasm in mute. Sound is a numbing warp through miles of ocean water and I am dreaming of the way it is in dreams, running, running without gaining ground.

When you were with me and understood everything, I kept still behind the glass.

Images of prey, hummingbird wings in wet mouths, cigarettes in broken fingers, sliding like phantoms on my evening wall. All day, all day, the hush of silence is a naked room and a miniature wooden chair, a supple rain shower and your lips searching me, opening secrets I am too afraid to speak. My womb is a beautiful moonlight garden in waiting, touching is red velvet gloves wearing hands and nothing is protected.

The night tempts a sky of pink ivory and words are the only food. I am swallowed by the sunset in your sea salt eyes. I burn with lust for the way you train my eager skin. But I won’t touch, and I won’t move, and I will trade the madness for a chance to breathe you in.

The brutal soak of heavy slicing rain aches to break itself open within me, this looming clench of an immaculate crush, this clenched torment seems to spin fast like cyclones gasping for wind. Everything I’ve now become is yours; the satin lick of blind infection has to be enough.

As the storms move in, flashes of lightning beneath my skin, I caress myself: defiant, blistering, illuminated. Raindrops slashed across the glistening membrane of a soul in her triumphant birth.

Pain is savage ritual bleeding, the final break in the gruesome night long screaming, a restless dawn that needs my love waits in the hands of life to receive me.

I am the howling and the healing.

This mourning that enfolds me, exposes me. Water, soil, seed.

Beauty is a mouth on my mouth like butterflies stitching themselves to faces in the dark. Strange stimulation the way we unfold: this is what it is to bloom.
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11 thoughts on “// heathens //

  1. Swarn Gill

    As I read these image soaked words I was reminded of what feels like the shedding of skin from an old relationship. And maybe not an overall one that was best for you. But perhaps that’s why a relationship ends. When you wrote When you were with me and understood everything, I kept still behind the glass. It reminds of these feeling we often get in height of that intense love we feel at the beginning of the relationship. We are perfect because we feel like we are being loved perfectly, but do we not still our growth, our assertion in the world. Resting on our laurels that we are beautiful to see. Like on display behind glass. Afraid to move lest we become less perfect. Not all loves are like that, but I think some are, and at moments I think we feel that way. And as we shed that love, and the pain keeps us still once again, all of a sudden we emerge almost from a cocoon, sometimes in what feels like rapid metamorphosis…a spurt of growth…unfolding from the featureless bud into a blooming flower. Yet I find it hard to believe that you are ever easily understood or defined, and would ever not assert yourself in any relationship. Your beauty is your vulnerability and it’s ability to demand acceptance on its own terms. So I am sure that I have perhaps interpreted this poem incorrectly…but maybe we all have one relationship where we even betray ourselves. Maybe that’s the heathen you speak of. 🙂 Either way this piece move me. Although nothing I’ve read of yours has failed to do so.

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    1. Allison Marie Post author

      Dear Swarn, I love your comment so. And please do not worry, you cannot misinterpret this! 🙂 I like to think of what I write as a painting or sculpture of sorts, something abstract that (tries to) touch on universal emotion and flow such that what you feel reading it comes organically from your own experiences. Humans are fascinating that way, right? How we can relate to each other and fill in our own blanks as we watch others try to fill in theirs. “Your beauty is your vulnerability and its ability to demand acceptance on its own terms.” – my god, friend. I cherish this, I thank you deeply, deeply.

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      1. Swarn Gill

        Filling in our own blanks is great for poetry/art, but may not be so good for other things. Assuming people’s intentions can sometimes get us in trouble. I know there aren’t wrong answers when it comes to interpreting poetry, but I also don’t necessarily want to insult the poet by perhaps making assumptions about intentions that are very out of character. I know this worry has a lot to do with my own nature as a scientist. I analyze to find answers, even when there are none if that makes any sense. In my mind I know that for art this approach doesn’t work very well but I often can’t help but still look at it that way given my own limited ability to do art in the way that you do it. For me when I create it is with definite purpose and intention. For someone like you, I see your creations, and it’s more than abstractness that I see, but almost as if your creation has taken on a life of its own. This is a talent that I do not possess and quite frankly when I see someone who is gifted like yourself I get a little jealous and wonder if it’s just a matter of talent or whether my weakness to create in this way is from a wall of my own making and I just don’t know how to break through.

        When I find beauty that I feel a connection to, as I do your poetry I do very much try to absorb it and let it run through me. I read your poems several times and see if that creation that you seem to give a life of it’s own forms in my mind as well. And as I try to view the amazing imagery your words create I try to view it from multiple angles, step close, step far away, and then think about the emotions I am feeling and then try to put that into words when I respond to your poetry. In my mind this seems like what one must do to create in the way you do, and so your poetry inspires me and helps me feel like I can breakdown barriers that I have perhaps created for myself. There are very few writers that I can say this about. Just reading your poetry and conversing with you helps me feel more exposed and open, and I like getting comfortable with that feeling.

        Well I know I’ve rambled a bit here but the main thing is that at the very least absorbing what you create is a way to get to know you, just like my reactions to your poems are a way to get to know me. Perhaps in the end I just want to make sure you know that whatever my reaction might be, it is nothing but pure pleasure reading what you write. 🙂

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      2. Allison Marie Post author

        How very interesting, thank you so much for sharing this with me. I appreciate all of your thoughts and how you work through things even as you write them out here, I feel honored that you are comfortable to do that in this place. I do create with purpose and intention, and everything I have goes into each piece. But the way I can create and feel safe enough to share it is to remember that reactions to my work are not my work. And there is something I hold sacred about my experience of writing it, and letting the reader’s experience be his or her own in absorbing it. This is a place where I am still learning about myself and I’ve learned to treat that discovery process so very, very gently. And I will always hold the responses gently, too. I trust the magic space in between. There are things that emerge from me in writing that come from something far beyond myself, and whatever that thing is, inspiration or energy or spirit or call it what you will, if that thing comes through and touches someone who is open to it – in whatever way that is for them – that’s all I could hope for. That’s the best.

        “. . . your poetry inspires me and helps me feel like I can breakdown barriers that I have perhaps created for myself.” That is the very coolest thing I have heard all day. I’m so grateful for that. I have so many barriers I’m trying to crash through, too. It’s brutal and beautiful to be us. 🙂

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  2. Swarn Gill

    I too feel the same way about my poetry. I am always pleased when someone feels connected. Maybe in the end I’m just the boy who as much as he loved the magic of Oz, he was much more interested in the Wizard. 🙂

    It actually pleases me to know that you are trying to break through barriers too, because your poetry feels so boundless when I read it. Ultimately that’s why I write, whether it is an essay or a poem. I am taking a journey in my mind and hoping that it will end up being a journey in how I act and physically move through the world as well. But I believe such journey have to begin inside. Like I said on another comment…making that internal map so that I can at least know what’s out there and where I might want to go to next. The map is never complete and that’s the beauty of it. There is always an edge with unknowns to chart. It is indeed a beautiful part of life.

    Thank you for this place of warmth and beauty that is your blog. Have a wonderful day Allison. 🙂

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      1. Allison Marie Post author

        I am so moved I am without the words to express it. I have never had someone put into words so beautiful how my words feel to read. I am completely humbled and so grateful. Please know it, my friend. So, so grateful.

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      2. Swarn Gill

        You are most welcome Allison. It is with gratitude also that I wrote the poem. I am fortunate that you found my site so that I could find yours. I look forward to seeing the further explorations of your heart and soul in your poetry as now that we have connected in the blogosphere we can be travel companions. 🙂

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  3. Ward Clever

    This requires repeated readings to peel all the layers you have revealed. It is a sculpture of words with art on the inside, nearly impossible to see but easily felt, and felt deeply. Felt it, I did. I’m a follower, not just of your blog, but of your style and philosophy. 🙂

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    1. Allison Marie Post author

      I am literally without the words to thank you enough. You read with your whole being and for this I am eternally, most deeply grateful. To be so seen is an honor and your words mean the world to me. ❤

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