Sunday, December 2, 2007

Poetry by Serena Spinello (Sylvia Plath)

Two poems by Serena Spinello
Inspired by Sylvia Plath

A Ditty for my Donator
(Inspired by Plath’s “Daddy”)

You have no more, you have no more
Damp old drawer
That confined me in a casket
Two decades, a prisoner,
Timid, trapped and sore.

Patriarch, I will destroy your core.
You left me with no key--
Odorous bomb, venomous snake,
Scary mannequin with medal pockets
Pathetic window dressing

Making patrons flee
From the alluring shopping place
That housed adorned clothes
I used to decorate your null space.
empty disgrace

To family that you called your own,
Bastard they called you,
Of a whore, whore, whore.
How she got around
My misborn buddy

Knows more like you.
So I could never pursue
My family or my kin.
I couldn’t find you.
The map burned on your cross.

It was swallowed by flames.
Ashes, ashes, ashes
Covered my body in gashes.
I thought every martyr was you.
Their corps so decayed.

An inferno, an inferno
Burning me like I’m paper.
Paper cut, paper gash
I started to crumble like paper.
I think I may well be paper.

Slaughtering oaks, charming pines
Give off a ghastly vapor.
With my creased sheets and poignant lines
And my creases and my creases
I have become paper.

My heartless scraper,
Removing my skin
With your trusty sharp pin
My demented maker,
Carnal sin, a carnal sin

I fumbled my lines, daddy.
The director resembled you.
Erring, erring
What was I to do?
A colloquy with you

I would never, be able to make my debut.
A trustful man is just a taboo
So I stayed in my tomb
Decrepit, decaying, anything to avoid you.
Your fashioned sentiments will never do.

They dragged me out of the womb,
Just so I could give tongue to,
A wretched man just like you.
My sermon daddy, is long overdue.
I wrote it on pure pious paper

And then I knew, I knew.
My suffering is caused by you.
I said I adieu daddy, adieu.
The devil’s calling daddy, I’ll put him through,
Pick up the phone daddy, you know it’s for you.

Another failed try
Leaves me wounded and blurred
Shortly there after it finally occurred.
Vital pesos and bills come to ignite and die.
Your pockets inflamed are my thoughtful goodbye.


Madame Martyr
(Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s "Lady Lazarus")

It was during
my third death
that I wrote this-

Tired am I,
from titillating Adam in Eden
and crucifying Hestia,
so back to carnality I come,
pregnant with my latest elegy.

Appreciate sallow sheathing,
dearest defamer
Are you appalled?

Chartreuse eyes and a sinewy shell?
The furrowed forehead
Will cease in a day.

Cherish concave cheeks,
contrasting my self-sustaining spirit.
Consider my assertive aperture,
the abode for my luring lips.

Desire delectable curves
and bounteous bosoms while you
delight in my synthetic stance.
Askew appendages are the result of rebellion.

My appeal for autonomy was denied
So I tote a nicotine trigger
and savor malignant methanol to
alter the affection.

Unchaste urges
assault me as
doctrines of denial
munch on my marrow.

Abaddon is anticipating my arrival-
I command my concocted cohort
to contend my cursed case

He’s pleasured by my plight
proclaiming that my piety
perished long ago.

Competing for cessation
My alliances accumulate
To regard my ruination.

Foresee me-
a transcendent perversion.
I aroused Cronus and Goliath

Couldn’t abstain
from my delightful dementia.
I was perched on a primal casket
that shielded shards
of my innocence

When blunder blew in.
my discharge from civilization
was denied twice in the following year.

Reposing, resting, retiring
They nursed me back to somatic death.

Durably a detainee
of depravity I dissipate
to my delectable demise.

Sanctified beams
of slaughter slither
through my sanatorium.

Exemption again.
I loathe light,
for resplendence rapes
my reedy restraints.

I’m a masterful marrer
Abrasions are an art and I’m Picasso.

He uses oils and I use blood
My talents are oh so great

Admire my fetching scars-there is no debate.
Barbed, biting, butchering and bleak
My lines are so fine; you’d never hear a shriek.

They all chant

It’s a miracle!
Not another failed attempt- I just can’t.

Tickets to the show of my wreckage
Are not free-

My tears are not for sale
My mania is not for sale
My pulse is not for sale-
It throbs, it really throbs.

Salutations Malachi, Salutations Zephenia

I’m your prophet
I’m your savior
I’m the chosen one.

I vanish into immoral air.
I cry and die.

I appreciate your fashioned empathy.

Soot, soot ---
You rummage and search

Casing, carcass, you won’t find it here---

A bouquet of oblivion
A leather journal,
Blank paper

Adieu deity, adieu delinquent
Out of the soot
I disappear into mid air
There is nothing left of me for you to repair.

Author bio:

Serena Spinello is 26 years old and lives in New York. Her recent poems have been published in Clockwise Cat, The Houston Literary Review, Conceit Magazine, 63 Channels, Sien en Werden, The Centrifugal Eye, Cause and Effect, Mississippi Crow, Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Zygote in my Coffee, Perspectives Magazine, The Flask Review, Contemporary Rhyme, Rogue Poetry Review and The Verse Marauder. Serena can be contacted via email at or

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