Can’t look.
Don’t recognise that barren crown.
Lipstick on a pig.
Line four of this unbosoming and brimming with blubber.
Can’t talk about this.
Tag / anxiety
AS SURE AS THE SUN SHALL RISE
An ocean of panic swells in my chest
As senses shudder into another day.
No calm before my storm;
Only perpetual tempest.
I dread these tides of confusion;
Predictable in their power,
But incalculable of depth
And — no oil to pour.
© Mel Lampro
INDISPENS(P)ABLES II
Re-homed over on my Temple Spa blog [read…]
EYEGLASS SKY
I am no stranger than the next person yet, I am far more flawed that the last. I experience no more, no less than any one of you; it is but a quarrel of proportions.
My sky is a lens that magnifies every moment into a monster; distortion thuds through my tongue and chokes the light into shards that bloody my sack-stitched mouth.
You only see the surface. Your view is the millpond that mirrors my eyeglass sky whilst I hide in plain sight, drowning beneath the unbroken surface.
This is about me.
It is not about you.
It is all about the dead-weight of me.
Me, myself and my eyeglass sky.
© Mel Lampro
INVITROGASM
© Mel Lampro
OLD FORK
When I say that my heart hurts, I do not mean the stabbing, searing pain of injury; it aches in the way that hunger ravages the pit of the stomach. I can taste the emptiness in my mouth; sour and tainted, like the prongs of an old fork. My heart feels hollow, vacant; my heart is starving and I am fearful that if I open my mouth it will leap out and consume the world.
© Mel Lampro
TICK
Everyone is dead
While my core tick, tick, tick
Ticks like a fat baby
Floating for breath.
Shades of owls and razors
Slice and screech in my sleep
Pressing me to cut
Loose from
You
Him
Her
Them
This
Everyone.
Tick, tick, tick.
© Mel Lampro
CONCAVE
I’m an artist, a dreamer, a drifter, a slave
To the pressures that squeeze me until I’m concave
Like a mirror that flexes away from the light and
Only observes what is written at night.
I speak the language of whomever is nearest
My chameleon tongue chides the hearts that are dearest and
Closest to me yet, I cannot feel love.
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave, my dove
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave.
© Mel Lampro
D'emo 