Voracious, etc.
By
Jo March
Voracious
To devour you
bite after bite
each morsel so
mouthwatering. So
deliciously
you
prepared exactly right.
I consume you
mouthful by mouthful
and taste the
delicacy of
the rawness of
your flesh until i’m full.
To ingest until you are a
part of my body
ingrained
in my cells
absorbed
into every particle of my being.
I am voracious
and you
are
so sweetly
edible.
Exsanguinated
Bleeding beauty through the pages of time
like the ink stains those flawless hands
and throat and heartbeat — rhythm or rhyme
but reason fled, running hourglass sands
in shards of sharp-tongued edges split
open and gaping for your brief attention.
Writing a bloody mess of words unfit
for even the most momentary mention.
I slaughter an innocence for the author
to stumble upon in avenues of prose
drunk on paper covered in our fervor
to capture how scenic red blood flows
— in rivulets across the books we read
these poems we share in dark viscera --
left with all the hope we could dread
would infinitely remain in this dead heart's atria.
230824
A lack of words to put to paper is often a just cause
to flay pieces of skin to shape into the phrases I need
and chip off bone from my ribcage or pelvis as the
mood requires to illustrate the theme of the piece.
Are words even a requirement when I can give you
pieces of this finite embodiment of myself instead?
I'll give you flesh and blood, worth their weight in
words unsaid, unwritten. viscera envisioned across
the page to convey what I need, I want to say.
Jo March is a wannabe poet and writer from South Africa. When not struggling to find the right words, they've spent their time this past year making their own collaborative writing zine with friends.
By
Jo March
Voracious
To devour you
bite after bite
each morsel so
mouthwatering. So
deliciously
you
prepared exactly right.
I consume you
mouthful by mouthful
and taste the
delicacy of
the rawness of
your flesh until i’m full.
To ingest until you are a
part of my body
ingrained
in my cells
absorbed
into every particle of my being.
I am voracious
and you
are
so sweetly
edible.
Exsanguinated
Bleeding beauty through the pages of time
like the ink stains those flawless hands
and throat and heartbeat — rhythm or rhyme
but reason fled, running hourglass sands
in shards of sharp-tongued edges split
open and gaping for your brief attention.
Writing a bloody mess of words unfit
for even the most momentary mention.
I slaughter an innocence for the author
to stumble upon in avenues of prose
drunk on paper covered in our fervor
to capture how scenic red blood flows
— in rivulets across the books we read
these poems we share in dark viscera --
left with all the hope we could dread
would infinitely remain in this dead heart's atria.
230824
A lack of words to put to paper is often a just cause
to flay pieces of skin to shape into the phrases I need
and chip off bone from my ribcage or pelvis as the
mood requires to illustrate the theme of the piece.
Are words even a requirement when I can give you
pieces of this finite embodiment of myself instead?
I'll give you flesh and blood, worth their weight in
words unsaid, unwritten. viscera envisioned across
the page to convey what I need, I want to say.
Jo March is a wannabe poet and writer from South Africa. When not struggling to find the right words, they've spent their time this past year making their own collaborative writing zine with friends.
