Sunday, October 5, 2008

Five poems by Amanda Boschetto

Five poems by
Amanda Boschetto


i often see children in my dreams,
speaking without words
and tongues

they are the voice of a dull
and broken childhood,
the sorrow of days undone and
uncut by the sun's evil mirrors

at some point they lick the
darkness clean,
pick its bone and throw pennies
down the smelly drain,
for a wish to be more than
dreamlessness or a mourning sound,
like a disgruntled kitten

their gloomy faces sit in my skin,
in my nerves
and my scrapbook of memories
burns my suicide and only
leaves a trace of another nightmare

these mad nights


on a borderline

the morning smells of anxiety
and love is far from my dusty
windows, only parasites live there

and mourning becomes a myth,
beneath the cold restless ground,
where cancer grows on withered

death is needy today and suicide
close by
a blanket of darkness lies over
the sunlight, sheltered from the
storm by god's tedious fingers

the fear of the womb makes me
crave a father even more,
incest is nice sometimes and
borderline is a disease from the
fictional drugged tomb
but we still live on it like a used
face full of wrinkles, full of age

and (m)others just exist



in this timely sky, the wounded
stars look down on us
with burned out eyes

their hurtful bodies lay awake
at night and listen to
our agony,
the pain of being alive in god's
ugliest nearby suicidal cloud

they tease us with twinkling
fingers, let us drown in the
black oblivious universe

they seem so near and needy
but with us offing ourselves
they birth a new every minute
and when they fall our wishes
are useless,
though it is a pretty sadistic picture


memory's stone

i might even see you in
memory's own stone,
gray and heavy you lie
in my mind

for i have seen the box
with truthful apples in it
and rejected them all,
for a lie well spoken

but in the shameful darkness
i need you
and we booth sweat the same
sullen love,
dirty like a dildo and guilty as
my selfish anxiety

in this bright night of spring



this blood is really anxiety,
self-injured from a
dull sunset
and nicotine stained fingers

this life is really a dreamless
suicide, taken from god's smelly
hands and i might even cry sometimes
because face down in the gutter
you see nothing but shit

Author bio:

Amanda Boschetto has only had a few things published. Details are in her blog at Rain Over Stockholm.

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