Room 102

The ice smears the cobweb smothered walls,
Jack Frost on crystal meth,
daubing away with bitter emulsion
as she snort, snort, sniggers.
Oh, her kingdom for an Estella!
Hers would have let nothing in, nothing.
There have been men,
chasing skirts and dragons,
as she sat by,
berating, fellating, breaking.
Those days are past now,
a wry footnote that serve -
When accidently piercing her mind,
as they do more often than
she cares to admit -
only as a reminder
to numb the would-be escapees
of her lore
before they do any more damage.
Be vigilant,
she needs no invitation:
the first toe dip into unnecessary compunction
is her summons.
Should you spy her,
light your hottest fire.

Anna Russell

They bled into each other,
slithering as they shed
the skins of Before.
He ripped the top from a mountain
and scooped out its innards,
handing them to her
as she summoned the skies
to their feet and bade them
to do as he wished.
'All' he said.
'Infinite' she replied.
They could ask for nothing more.

Anna Russell

Innocence cannot be recognised
by the innocent.
Only those who mourn its passing
are rendered wistful in its presence.

Anna Russell

She screams for More;
this is her battle-cry, this Boudicea
adrift from her chariot, tearing through
unfamiliar land, always crying
More.

Her shield is a battering ram,
her sword an axe. Give to her,
helpless as you will find yourself to
withold. Give to her
and she will take,
she will take before snarling the torn-lipped
snarl of the ravenous.

She wants to wear your skin
like spoils of war, tear through your ribcage
and feast upon your heart, wailing for
your soul as she dines. Adorning her head
with your eyes, her throat with your voice,
again it comes:

More.

Wordless and sightless you hear it,
snatched from your own larynx and
uttered in your timbre yet saturated
in the void she exists in.

She wants you to love her,
love her more than anyone has or can.
Hurt her and she shines,
cut yourself on the blade of her hunger
and watch her smile.

Still, she wants more,
consumed with battered reflections
of images she cannot bear to see,
yet unable to cease. Unable to admit she must.

You cannot win.

And nor can she

Anna Russell

(this is a re-working of a poem that was intended as a companion piece to one called Exploding Aphrodite, which can also be found on this blog).