| Skin or Peel? Palm to foot and foot to palm - does it matter which skin? I create and tread on the created So really cells are cells are cells and everything in between cuts at meaningless. I am eyelash, freckle, start of smile, and yet none of these, all of everything else. How strange that I wake a cobweb of hair on my head, but lay down to sleep with smoothness and no trace of legged spinners. My voice echoes in tunnels, a forever that stretches in my ears but I find I am none when ears wont stretch. Am I words and matter, Or what matters in words? Without each there can find no either, no song to jilt a tear, no book for my heart to thumb through. I look at my reflected face and trust not what I see - my voice in foreign ears sounds a wave apart. Light breaks my sleep but The Book teaches we will pass from darkness to light and how can we rest through blazen lids? ©Mercedes Dawson 2008 |
| O I fall into the slipstream, unconscious crept thoughts of another’s fall allows my missing of the warning, the simple stop to make me saved, and finds themselves in moistured promises of hot skin, lit, scaled by your touch. Your eloquence of delivery distracts, each place you wander receives all of the demands you make, all of the fire and feeling from your journey south, and I have never been so lost there. The mouth speaks words to seduce but the mouth on me converts effortlessly until I am begging, cup in hand, "please girl, can I have some more?" and a flicker, a further fall, leaves me staggered and wet in your bed when you leave. The cunning of your tongue lingers between us. ©Mercedes Dawson 2008 |
| So You Bought Me Anew The thoughts seep out of my mouth, follow the kisses my lips move to make, and the words that straggle with them slip and spill down my front. I catch the light flit from your eyes, see the leaving and breathe to breathe it back again, to smudge the endeavour I can tell has already begun, a sigh. You step back, look at the mess that has been made of my new dress, push me away with disgust and leave a stain on the sleeve of my skin. You wipe your lips, your hands, notice the taste in your mouth that is turning sour, acrid and copper, and shut your eyes to block this out. A scream rips from your tongue to spit on mine, and you beg me to be clean, be post-something, and you run from the house that is me. I sit in the corner while my mess turns dark, I sit in my stenched words, all the while my lips move and move over, undecided as to whether to take them back. The nights pass and the days linger, long hot suns that make my dress grow, pretty colours that fur and grow legs to walk up my body and into my head. I wait for you, wait for your lips to return ungrimaced and smiling, and I clutch at my front as the door opens, see you come back and see what’s in your hands. A waxy plastic bag – a clean new dress. ©Mercedes Dawson 2008 |