She performed fellatio on my Glock 45
I ejaculated
my tounge eviscerated her
unfinished poems tumbled down her porcelain throat
her eyes rolled
her pain filled my notebook
complimenting scars created by her cat of nine tails
I departed, exhausted from bandaging her slit wrists daily
I was never instructed how to mend self-mutilation
how to teach value
how to inject love
she could not stomach my heart
I found it regurgitated in a trash can
behind the skeletons in her closet
her wrists bled profusely
forearms bound to wood
veins strangled, screaming for redemption
her shoulder blades kissed
their juice beaded above her hips
nestled in her lower back
goosebumps punctuated her nipples
areolas ripe and raised
her bosom glistened, sticky, covered by perspiration,
ribcage stretched high, arched,
a proscenium above the stage of her passion
her navel ring gleamed, reflecting the noon sunlight
her cheeks, hard pressed against jagged splinters
were numb, pins, needles,
pubic hair crowned her temple
wind gusted against her damp savannah grass
despite immense pain, torture,
she was aroused
mango juice slithered down her inner thigh
reminiscent of pomegranate juice dripping from Eve’s chin
weary legs crossed ever so slightly
contrasting the nights they lay open.
they gave and received, offereing sustenance
through telepathy coupled with spontaneous rhythms
calves defined from standing on manicured toes
balancing, right hand gripping her backside.
those days are gone,
ankles pinned by rope and steel.
she scramed, exhaled, hung her head.
it is done.
she walked off.
so did I.
there is an oceanic abyss
where disenchanted dreams are buried
a tectonic trench punctuated by self-loathing
molted rock engulfs aspirations
they burn slowly, lungs consumed quickly with flame
whimpers attempt to leave lips
inaudible on all frequencies
stars look down shaking their heads
he could have been so much more
had he not acquieseced to flaggellation
the last patch of dirt hit his wooden coffin
the dam was ruptured
they cried a deluge
he lay beneath still waters
a ripple of influence
Martyr A Muse (part 2, poem #10)
Published September 4, 2008 Uncategorized Leave a CommentTags: martyr a muse, sacrifice, timothy prolific jones
this morning in el barrio
a silhouette of inspiration
lay cast on a brick wall
adorned with crucifixes, racks, & nooses
painted laboriously with crimson liquid
she lay on a slate table atop a Mayan pyramid
my dagger raised high above her abdomen
she cried silently
eyes clenched, trepidatiously she awaited my penetration
my left hand tightly gripped her neck
she moaned anxiously,
awaiting sacrifice
Grigori (part II — the fall) — poem #8
Published August 18, 2008 Uncategorized Leave a CommentTags: grigori timothy prolific jones fallen angels demons pri
Righteousness is a choice
even for those created of spirit & ether
what is your choice?
If you were created in blissful proximity
to Elohim
what woman or temptation would make you disobey
knowing that fallen angels are crushed between stars
charred by sulfur and boiled like crabs & lobsters
howling for a redemption that will never come?
the event horizon of free will
sucked matter from bone
goodnight Sodom, goodnight Gomorrah,
goodbye to any place that the wicked call home
a Lot of people sought Noah-like deliverance
from High Priests like Melchizedek
what is the price of Salelm?
can peace be sold like Manhattan or Pennsylvania?
how many have you witness fall
barred from paradise, tormented eternally?
how many suns Set dismembering self-proclaimed Pharaohs
whose dynasties shattered porcelain Rocs against granite idols?
stones crack under shepherd staffs
water springs forth to sustain the Exodus of the righteous
however no savior has ever spared the instructors of human vices
screech owls like Adam’s 1st wife, Lilith
Satans (accusers) of the Most High
may have shed light like blood, illuminating
a crimson darkness, a sin manufactured
pride
Lucifer, Azazel, Samael,
you were supposed to watch
instead you fucked humanity
through your avarice
your rebellion roared
a boasty lion
ultimately slain by a Lamb
Caffine — Poem #7 (Haiku)
Published August 18, 2008 freewrite Leave a CommentTags: timothy prolific jones haiku 30 poems 30 days stress su
He sips caramel
macchiatos to stop him-
self from slitting wrists
Grind Season — Poem # 6
Published August 14, 2008 freewrite Leave a CommentTags: grind season freewrite song hip-hop poem timothy prolif
Early in the mornin, sunlight’s lurkin/birds are chirpin, let’s focus in on a person/he’s gotta go to work but inside he’s hurtin/smile on his face, in his head he’s cursin/the shit’s not his passion, the hustlers he’s passin on the walk to the train are laughin/”we thought you was a playa, thought you was a poet/thought you was on your grind, what you got to show for it?/ you got got no dough, we know you got flow but when you gonna blow?/when’s the next show?/shorty left you for the dude next door? why you never home, heard about your cousin gettin raped/when you gonna clap that chrome?/we know you can write, spit from the dome/you ain’t that real hip-hop, we like that Weezy Phone Home.”/They talkin while he’s in the zone, he wants to get to the j.o. and be left alone/it’s grind season
