Forsooth to Evil

A Poem by Amorette Duvannes

This poem is a literal account of my walk to school, and an account on adolescence. Please see author's note for more details, as there aren't enough characters to present everything I wanted to say.

8AM strikes like a b***h,

And romping the losing street -

The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.

The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,

Spike me in the side with their knees

Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin

The cold, dead breath bullies like a child

Never been taught, never have they ought;

I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.

The glands of my sodden state are nucleic

They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix

And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say

They say them in spite

Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid

Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes

I do despise, I do despise,

The heartless range of those hunter-deers,

The wet pathos that criminals invoke

And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!

A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin

You wished I were dead so you could be thin.

And when I am not hot,

Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,

I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes

The slight disgust, the frozen musk

Awns over me, little fist tight of pink

Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale

And then, you are there--

Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me

A spoken longing and then all we know wilts

A running red cloak of tartan regrets

Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist

The torture device you call your words is broken out

I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it

To the solars like I am owed.

Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--

Give me strength, for the thoughts

The thoughts, that blow through me

Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh

Do not upturn the limped greyed grass

And blow through, a harmless storm,

With nothing to say about how I carry my day.

Move on to your homeward-bound, your

Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners

Like your words, your cold f*****g words.

You slimy b*****d, you c**t,

I have spoken, one million syllables,

For your satisfaction.

You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand

Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --

I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.

© 2014 Amorette Duvannes

Author's Note

During my hiatus, I realised that, whilst writing, as I just wrote and wrote and wrote with no comprehension of the thematic presentation, that really, I knew what I was doing all along. Everything you see from me, is a presentation on adolescence. I knew all along, you see - and I've always said, that adolescence is my biggest curse. And I've been writing about it without even knowing it. This poem is a literal account of my walk to school as something that starts the day that follows - I run there as the train comes in and try to escape the masses of my peers that get off - though sometimes I am late and unlucky - and then, at school, am afraid, anyway. I mean, kids are mean, I guess. But I'm glad I could write this, and glad to know that finally, I know what it all means.