New Poetry by Fredi Goodwin-Scott




Dust to dust.

Soil to soil, feeling like we need to hold hands and wait for the inevitable run

On to more, there must be more waiting on the other side,

If there’s another side.

Tell me there’s another side.

Some men pray to a God who’s cruel, out of touch, full of malice and they call it faith.

Who sees that palace of royalty and seeks the king’s jewels.

Battlements upon heads reach and can never quite touch a smell of victory, everlasting.


Dimming in the distance, the wood moves anon.

Scratch at the sky, and wish for it to open, all-consuming and transfigure to man’s will.


Revolutionise hope and sit at the steeple head.

Read the Word and open those oceanic, glycerol like balls,

Watch Him preach my message and call it fact.


Dust to dust.

Create my bones from twigs and my ribs from the sun. Brown and bright.

Scripture upon my brow, deep and engraved like stone,

Sinner, Saint, Savour.


Repent and repel what you know is degenerate.

Who can tell which is which?

Curse me born out of rage, grazing the scorch for something.

Anything.


I call it hopeless.



 

The illusion of freedom


Cheating on a relationship is a distraction,

a self-delusional addiction to cheap thrill.


I trusted you. All I thought about was you.

He would like this, He should watch this, He must read this.

It can’t be true, out of view,

Why do you revel in her kiss?


Lord, tell me how to say no to this.

Her body, her breath, her buoyancy is keeping me afloat,

I know this is wrong, but I can’t help myself,

Swaying to the beat,

Feeling the vibrations ripple down my spine like a sweet sombre,

She attaches her words to my lips,

I taste them gladly.


Waiting and wishing for the tide to roll is bittersweet,

Shallow and cold, my heart runs further and further away.

Did you remember me beneath the bedsheet

My love, I see your hushed promises decay.


Fuck it, I feel free.

This feels right, she’ll never find out,

No big deal.

She’s my muse, I shaped her and moulded her to me.

You don’t feel remorse for your property.

Silly little girl, I own you.


I want to burn away your skin, bleach your eyes

And cut out your tongue.

You disgust me. You repulse me. Break my ties.

Full of emotional cowardice, killing the young.


Do I regret it?

Must I feel guilty when my species is so accustomed to cheat?

I want to be the man I was,

I don’t understand either my own selfishness.

You act as if my love is owed to you, but you give me only apathy.


You are a gambler putting the hearts of others up as your stake.

Love needs honesty and truth, otherwise you risk a foolish vortex of pain.

I hate you; I ache.

A seamless and endless pageant of rain.


I sit here and laugh,

All to hide my shame and ruining something so perfect,

Scream at me, hit me, just don’t leave me.

I don’t deserve your forgiveness; I know my dear.


Learning to unlove you took me years and it only took you seconds because you were doing it all along and didn’t even have the decency to tell me.



 

Power and pleasure


Power and pleasure seem to be the same thing.

Taking what doesn’t belong to you, a transaction complete with lingering tranquillity.

Please me, love me, take me, completely.

I submit to you and only you.


I want to take you. Consume you. Run my nails down your back and hear you open that shoebox of wonder that I love so much.

Give you mountains of pleasure,

With little measure.


Degraded, dilated, naked.

I must encircle your mind as a cloud of dust, empty but fulfilling.

Power is the great aphrodisiac.

The numbing morality and others’ empathy, you lose yourself in the insatiable quench.


I have learned that love which begs to be chased, captured, or wrestled into submission;

That is not love.

It is merely loneliness and desire wrapped up with a pretty bow.

You confuse me.


“I love you” you say, as the bottle smashes my brow.

“I’m sorry” you say, wiping the blood on your knees.

“Forgive me” you say, placing a magnolia onto my casket.

I don’t believe I can. I don’t believe I will.

Power and pleasure seem to be the same thing.

Until they’re not. Until you have been raped for feeling.