I cut myself again tonight
And my skin parted like the Red Sea
I am Moses.
I cut open my inside thigh
Hiding my disease, so no one could see,
Looks can be deceiving.

I covered my wounds with plasters;
Envying the way plasters hid pain,
Much Better than I did.
I took care of my wounds
Incase of infection, so I would never have to explain
Why my thighs cracked like volcanoes.

I drew thick safety lines
Thick enough to block out feelings
This is apathy.
I became reborn every morning
After baptising in my holy tears
God will receive me.

I had no faith to walk over the waters
Terrified that the waters would drown me
I am Peter.
I keep self sacrificing, hanging myself on the cross
For my sins that I can't stop committing
I am Jesus,
Or is this blasphemy?

They'll discover me in
the catacombs or
in some presbytery
playing dominoes
while
watching Tom and Jerry,

they're fans of mine
during cartoon time or
so I like to think.

They attend matins
I take statins
which is just my
reliance on science
and the medical fraternity.

Tom laughs with me
Jerry's a bit
standoffish,
at times
I wish I was.

If they do find me
I'll play hide and seek
with their minds
or Scrabble
whichever's
the easiest.

Malignant Mindless Maternal, Maliciously Moulding murderous Motives.

The Paternal parted prior the proof of pregnancy. Parturience posing as a poignant peril.

On the highway of anguish, desolate and melancholy—
a thunderous stream of metallic behemoths ravaging the route.
tragedy waiting impatiently like an honest thief.

Heavy feet embedded into the tarmac, wales of twins echo from the womb.
Tears of the cloud cleansing twilight sins. Labour screams drowned by the rain. Baptising the abandoned infants.

The storm departs as dawn embraces new life.
Weary eyes meet frail hands as kindness kindles hope.

he sold his house of cards and joined a band wagon caravan marching carolers streaming down the Nile River playing sad songs better
searching for Jesus and the Pharaoh and Cleopatra and Madonna
pop culture religion


he kissed ferris wheels
I never forgot the clouds
We stole the timelines from trees
Fractal fairytale disease
Symptoms of make believe


Falling in love life
Wonderland lust
Teaching kites how to fly
Graceful ugly ducklings sailing the moon to peterplan
So little princes and Indians can plant sunflowers
While the aliens are on vacation
Like surprise Christmas gifts of sparklers on new years the color of Atlantis books hidden in scrolls in marketplace buddhas

The world travels around us
As we play sad songs better

We build homes for those without
Feed our flesh to the Earth
Death blooming circles Mary go round ring round the rosey sunset kind of apocalypse called bliss

Wisdom streamlined by the old fisherman drowning in the fresh air as pinnochio waves from the whale saved by hopeful generation bred with care compassion
Playing our sad songs better

Christening the weather
Baptising ourselves in the rain
Calling the universe our church
Truth seeds in our hearts and membranes

Hummingbirds living in beehives
Hybrid hope of tomorrow

Letting lions and lambs play with mice
Aesop playing banjo out of tune
Poets turning into to fireflies
Lighting our way home
Through crop circles and ghost stories
Not being anchored by our past
We are no generation Titanic
We just play sad songs better

I've seen sand flooding through city streets like a torrent of hot gravy drowning sprouts and beetroots, park benches and church rooves.

Or maybe more like the final sprinkle of salt over a roast dinner, baptising the parsnips and chicken breast in some sick meal time ritual.

It bursts through stained glass windows, suffocating the streets and preserving the locals. It rains down.

They used to mix it into a paste and mould it into city scapes - arches topped with fancy statues in humble salute through holes in the clouds.

Nowadays they melt it down and make office blocks out of the stuff, 500 metres in the air propped up like a million glossy middle fingers.

We collect samples of it from the moon, then analyse it and draw loads of numbers and pie charts.

We bake it into computer chips and pluck digits from the stars in the sky. We can predict eclipses and the dances of the planets with only slightly more accuracy than Ptolemy.

The power and strength of the sand is unstoppable. It'll come again when you least expect, and drag us with it into our own graves.

I want my love back.

I want my ghosts to possess my lungs - resuscitate my ancestors while I breath in laughter.

For the ball inside my throat to hurl fire - to make love to the sun
scare shadows
intimidate death and
offend darkworkers.

A love where God’s water breastfeeds me at the bottom of the ocean - baptising my blood and transforming my saliva into gold.

Love me. Want me. Find me.

Give, it, back.

I want my love back

A love where God’s water breastfeeds me at the bottom of the ocean - baptising my blood.

Transforming my saliva into gold.

What if life was a match
struck in darkness
that brief, burning moment
as the flame grows
baptising all it touches
with its blessed light.

Even as the snuffer looms,
deaths cap leaves behind
a smouldering ember,
and as it all cools down
I can somehow still feel
the warmth.

If time was kinder
I'd keep the flame burning,
but since it will not yield,
I'll love and remember
the glow long after
the flame has died.

©️Lizzie Bevis

Heart fresh as

Spring-


Waters

Re-birthing,

Baptising

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