Category Archives: Poetry

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Am I To Believe

Posted on August 9, 2018 by Catastrophe Jones

Everything I have been gifted — these fingertips, this tongue. Everything I’m waiting for under the burning sun. I am a monster in my own right, but you already knew. Tearing open my own flesh but then — who am … Continue reading →

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What If

Posted on August 8, 2018 by Catastrophe Jones

What if they gave us everything we asked for, what would be left to want, what would be left to pray for? What if they gave us everything we needed, What would be left to lack, what would be left … Continue reading →

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Know ( )self

Posted on July 18, 2018 by Catastrophe Jones

Intangible thing, a belief in self — how is it that you cannot hold it, cannot wield it, cannot shield yourself with it? Because it cannot be grasped? But in the hands of another, it cuts deeply enough that you … Continue reading →

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Untitled

Posted on July 17, 2018 by Catastrophe Jones

The scent of her is thick on fingers, lips, skin, sheets; she leaves a trail of pheromones wherever she goes, inspiring late morning sessions of fast and frantic fucking, the kind where it’s hard to get enough, hard to think … Continue reading →

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Servant

Posted on July 16, 2018 by Catastrophe Jones

You who bore the tattoo, who bore the blood, who carried the mark, who carried the light. You who could not lay down because the quest was not yet finished. You who held the lightning; you who sang the void. … Continue reading →

Posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry | 3 Comments

3 Responses to Servant

  1. rienan says:
    July 16, 2018 at 9:20 am

    I love the imagery. I also resonate with the rest now, more to come. <3

    Reply
  2. Johnny (Crabcakes) Panian says:
    July 18, 2018 at 12:12 am

    Lovely, visceral quality.

    “You who ate of the bitter fruit,
    and knew it was good,
    and knew it was yours.”

    Put me in mind of one of my favorites by Stephen Crane:

    In the Desert

    In the desert
    I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
    Who, squatting upon the ground,
    Held his heart in his hands,
    And ate of it.
    I said, “Is it good, friend?”
    “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

    “But I like it
    “Because it is bitter,
    “And because it is my heart.”

    Reply

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