Two poems by Petra Whiteley

Poetry
by Petra Whiteley

The Crucible

There's nothing so smooth,
so fragile.
As your distant, cracked silhouette.

You say I am your toy as I echo
in your vague, humming nightmares.

I am waves licked, sunk
in your perfervid laughter, I drown
and go under, heavy, spellbound.

Your babe, rotated and hypnotised
above your fire like slaughtered
animal destined for fast consumption.

I'll burn through you, trickle
out through your sadness,
isolation
and vanish, silently.

Flood your unsaid
syllabic corpses, tinted
confessions with my thick
thoughts, stray, screaming
inwardly, imploding red slick,
finish you off - the crucible
of your crystallised God, clutching
your misery between teeth - shinning
harbour lights, keeping you safely,

still.

I will slip through your skin,
cold, thin. You will be filled
with pulsing noise, spinning it around.

Ripped pages will be flowing away
from your bitten tongue. Bared knuckles
will turn the wheels of the clock,
soundlessly, you shall hide
there in the ticking blackness, small
and diminishing.

I will remember you, revolt ignited,
blazing. And myself, longing
for the land in your lips. You will
spit me out in a gesture of indifference
and hardness. It will come to an end.

--------------------

Birthday gift

Twisted shadow
in cunning disguise of morning light
creeps in, gathers sentences, gibberish
of drugged damages into a hard, tight fist.

You've let me in, and now all your friends
are gone. You're sitting there alone,
the door shuts out all the air.
You've
heard it all before, but I will not say
I'm sorry.

Wet wood, rotten chair, fermented
sillhoutte of you, dried cells of you, crouched,
slit eyes sunk in guilt, throat cut
and I don't care.

I won't whisper it into the breath
of your sore skinless face as you fade away.

My curved mouth won't
do anything about your burdened, shrivelled
spineless back.

Some things cannot be forgiven,

you've caged me in the black line memories.

I call them back. Leave you there.
I hear your
hollowed
scream
Silence is just what I give you,
a birthday gift.

Author bio:

Petra Whiteley immigrated to UK in 1993 from the Czech Republic. Her poetry has appeared in Osprey, The Glasgow Review, ETC, Seven Circle Press, The Gloom Cupboard and Eviscerator Heaven, which has now appointed her as their prose editor. The Glasgow Review, Osprey and Eviscerator Heaven also published her articles on political and current issues (left-wing position), history and methods of French Symbolists, with essays on current poets, lyricists and more articles on poetic movements commisioned for future issues. More of her poetry is also forthcoming in Eleutheria and in Apt. Ettrick Forest Press published her first poetry collection 'The Nomad's Trail' in September 2008.