Capture

Go red in the center

Set my citrus on fire

Unnamed

Fish on a hook

To Unravel

A thanks to Pablo

I was never a fan of the burn--
hot pins to be pinched beneath my skin,
scalding the tan beauty that was
considered by all to be ugly.

On the contrary,
I was quite a lover of the blade--
Sweet sweeps of a sharp edge
gliding and gilding,
resulting in oozing and drips
of strawberry sanguine fluid
arriving in daylight with glory.

Years in my past I remember
being such a lover. The stinging of
split flesh and the opening and reopening
of my impeccable chesnut wounds.

But now--

a lover of love,

a lover of arts.

The vermilion fluids have turned

to rainbow liquid pouring itself

onto me in poetry, in words.

From lips,

not blades.

My mind riveted in indecisiveness,
as blood roses await to claim my body.
And I dare not to be so open in my
vulnerability to do so.

I am not such a coward to admit I
carry fear in this. The possibility of my
orange desires to be held and
carried away to sin by one else than
whom I live for.

If I open you, I wonder if your
unruly nature becomes sweeter with
wants and needs and less of the
impulsive midriffs and undergarments that
momentarily fulfill a man's hunger.

But the baron of my red territory
often fights for peace within itself
and your invasion of me must be
soft setting. So not to kill or destroy.

That gingham skirt has become too much for you honey,
along with the red pumping heart finally blossoming.
I had wondered when the core in the middle
of optical irises would dilate,
causing you to see things
reasonably clear and uplifting.

What a gift, a pomegranate with a million squirming
seeds. Your sweetest watchtowers have paid you a
visit, and paved the way for something neon-colored.
The decapitating angel claws have shoved away from
a falling sky.

What you need now is the splendor ride into his vista.

And all the sky can do is zip down
and expose whatever rests for you.
Don't bite into this ginger too hard.

Here, just to be here

as thin as air

do you see me?

In between the cracks of the kitchen

and the laundry?

the relevance of my relevance alone is obviously oblique

my slanting shapes and patterns are blending in with

this life

soon the glowing of my physical radiation

will melt like the spryness of the globe's ice

funny how I lose my words, those illuminous

creations that don't breathe without me

perhaps I don't need relevance from you, love

from the world,

from myself,

but simply from the words that flow away from the kitchen

far away from the laundry

and straight from me

© Georgina Marie

Is it love or is it a body?

Is it passion or a fire emitting sparks that are put out

by the ocean I breathe in?

I feel the air starting to die down

like the words between us.

the sand apparently sweeps down into your throat

and turns your head to the side

The gulls are beginning to stir over us

the wind pushing to be caught in the middle of us

blowing away the blossoms that used to be stationed behind my eyes

tell me why the metal tightened around my skin

is losing it's place on my body

why my nails dig into your skin and my legs open for you

but your mouth closes in front of me

this wind is taciturn, inattentive

like the seashells that cover your ears

and the seaside crows that blind your green irises

tell me where the wind will push us

© Georgina Marie

Don’t stop when a finger slowly touches your lips

In a moment where your pixels are vibrantly conjoined

and the world is deranged from war

Try to wrap your hands around thorns

And force the wounds into your hand

If you’d understand

That a moment so pure may never exist

For those of parts plagued with expiry

I think there may be a moment where flesh may mesh

With another and we may bleed our colors

Into some unknown origin

And in a most meaningful summer night

We’d be covered in cloves

Languid and together

With white shelter beads

Wrapped around her

Promises of hands and hearts and miraculously

We’d be made whole again

To go through soul trading

And if only the entire world would make these kind of moments perpetual

There’d be no need for blood shed

© Georgina Marie

Something worth paying attention to

Like an insect under a magnifying glass

A moth caught onto a light bulb

A voice with something to say

You are

Distant, at the least I found your voice

Poetic strings that were glided and in tune with it

On my half, it is yet to be heard

I adore the way your inner voice looks

It is seen as a bowl of mixed pigments

a lot more than just softness and a single color

I twitch a bit and stare with nervousness

Though much more calm than usual

Considering I am the normal unusual

And you examine me

A strange female with a montage mind

Forming a world into words

While you sit back, doing the same,

and becoming champagne for a young girl

I want my world merging with yours

My internal paints to be painted on your canvas

My darkness wrapped around you and

your light squeezed from the tension

I want the roses dying around you

With every black feather you lose in the heat of sadness

I want you, love

I am moving up, down

Horizontal even

My state in diagonal manners

It seems, as I approach myself

The line of my own horizon recedes

Into itself

My uncertainty

Overwhelming

The lusciousness of this Satsuma

Discoloring

Losing taste

Perhaps my veins will open

And tell me

The girl in between

Isn’t losing her tangerine

I fear turning to a single inept spark

Lacking the discharge to get

This fire going

The ramming of colors

As a short framed girl

With the heaviest of guilt

My core cannot crack or spirit

…erode

To chill my fire

I’ll pick the lock from where I bleed

Evidently I’d be there

To beg and plead. And fall underground

Unless, your citrus saves me

I wonder about you

If you have intimidating figures

Eyes as black as blackberries

That will make my nerves jump

I find it difficult to say

That I won’t try to lean my pelvic bones towards you

I’ll begin to worry

About the appearance of my obviousness

The batting of my eyelashes

The jitters of my hands

The black of your eyes

Mr. Father

My smile has been demystified

It has lost the flavor of spring,

the favored taste of being

And I wonder if

You will wonder

About my ruins

That have kept me from being free

Maybe we belong to the same kind of happiness

Residing outside of the ordinary

Lately I am smashed into calligraphy

Swirled, curled lines that run into

The topography, the surface of my pages

I was part of your straight edges never measuring up to you

Your edges that cut deeper than I had cut into myself

Do you care to know the segments of me, now deceased?

How I grew out of my old crayons and turned to an outpour of blades and blood

But I’ve stepped a few feet from the deceased

I’ve gained the taste of spring, the taste of being

I am free, even if only one-third of the meaning of free

And still

You don’t know me

I’m sitting here putting my literary mind to use

Attempting to scrape you from my ventricles

You’ve strung yourself through

You are lethal

You’ve held on to my waist

But never read into m y words

And if you would

You’d find yourself there

Lined up in stanzas

Written into more than just a human

You’d be amazed the way my sensuality

Runs out of your hands

off of my fingertips

Blossoming into more than just thighs

And art

These words are

my heart

My body

Something I did not choose

But was embodied by

The mysteries you fail to explore

Are spread out for you

au fait!

And so you like the way I caress my own shoulder

The way you can study every part of me

How I go from sweet to outrageously spicy

but you’d find more exposure from the poet in me

Even if I play dead

My words won’t disappoint me

They face me

And shower me in detail

For my own understanding

And yours

If women were made from a sculptor

Would he favor my shape?

Create the boldness of my lips

And repeat the curvatures

I find th e irony

In my diminutive legs

Is how I see what height overlooks

I reach for the sun above

And fall for the grass below

Closer to the ground I am

But is it a setback

That the shape of my body is not

Similar to the growing almond trees?

Rather the way they flourish outward

Contoured with their fullness

My attributes rounder

My numbers larger

Filling hands with all woman

My jeans finally fit loosely

My curves easily noticeable

My poetic sensuality rising in an uproar

No more will

I envy the meager entities

That all phallus’ tend to love

They can keep their bones

And I’ll keep my meat

My own body could be so strengthening

As it was

When he held

The virgin in me

I’ve grown to be alive

Adorning my fruits

Watching my hips

Feeling my legs, how Pablo makes me feel words

And now the detail of my form

Will be not only seen for myself

But wanted

For itself