The Poetry Marathon

The Magic of Puree Pathology

Table set for two, romantic in candlelight,
Subtly dimming your true intentions,
Flickering souls tarnished by night,
Dazed by your misdirection.

Shock sets in, and passes over me, a whisper,
Lovers speaking in hushed dusk tones,
Serving my sibling, unwelcome offer,
But a grim offering none the less.

Heaving on each mouthful, my insides taut,
Eyes pleading heartfelt with you to stop,
Lust and sadism indistinguishable,
And I serve both masters.

Pulsating inside as you watch my tears,
Always manipulating my weakness,
Relishing every mouthful forced,
Rising to my suffering.

The meal is complete, but this is initiation.
I sense that your plans run deeper,
Advantageous secrets,
Trust misplaced,
My downfall.

Gazing, love and fear’s cocktail, into your dark eyes,
I attempt once again to gain your absent mercy,
‘Dyer-Bolique, with higher hand and magic art,
You have won.
I submit to your will as you wish,
But plead that you show mercy.’

The Trickster

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
Attended as my patient, faking closure,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Scales fall from my eyes, blinded by vanity,
Arrogance’s pride.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
A mask of irony worn to our first supper,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see,
Yet guided my culinary feast, my plan anticipated.
Hubris’s guide.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Turning feigned paranoia into trust,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Manipulated the hunt, but his cold heart chose me.
Desire’s disdain.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Fogging my mind with self-doubt and fear,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Twisted my hand, forced the game to proceed yet still,
Chose me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
Embraced the test, for his friend he had no heed,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Pushed my weakened limits, possession his intention,
Tricked me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
‘In honor of a game won fairly and played well,
I surrender my life to my now captor’s hands,
And only ask that the mercy in your heart does swell.’

In accord’s honour
I surrender myself whole
Your hideous whims

You led won the dance,
But I am wedged in your mind,
Eternally plaguing.

Her Poker Face

Dyer-Bolique drags the pickled remains to the alter,
And carves the marinaded meat,
Without hesitation, without consideration,
Frozen in the realms of a psychopath.

Observing, an internal alarm creeps over my mind,
Tarnished by his researched request,
So alike in thought and deed that he anticipated my every move,
And forced the Blackjack into my shaking palm.

Tender slices fall from nostalgia’s thundery storm,
Bagged and stored in ice, as the remains catch fire,
Fuel and food, such hollow words from my own being.
Dyer-Bolique in name, diabolique in nature.

Our abode heats up furiously, fueled by his anhedonia,
Trapped like a rabbit forced between the headlights,
I acquiesce in deed, though my mind cries from its depths.
The call is made, my brother comes.

Jon, the younger cherub, in youth under my protection,
Unable to envisage any harm upon him, his big sister.
I see the child engaging me through adult eyes, pleased.
Small talk persists as HE looks on, growing ever impatient.

At length, caught in my own trap, I lead him into the abyss,
The sickle awaits, lurching on the shelves, just as Dyer-Bolique planned.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
A slit to the throat, gaping wound,
His head tips back, cries stifled,
Blood pours relentlessly,
Guilt enshrouds.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
The child, not the man, adoring,
Unable to comprehend,
Unaware of my ego,
Guilt enshrouds.

Dyer-Bolique redirects my dear brother, quick decoy,
And surreptitiously forces the sickle in my hand.
Dyer-Bolique smirks with utmost cruelty,
Aroused by owning the winning hand.

Ice flows through my veins, and steams,
Conflict causes a quivering,
Sickle drops,
He wins.

Nostalgic Whist

Exhilaration flares in his own anticipation,
Unaware that I have completed a thorough investigation,
Located the weakness, identified my trump card,
And am eager to play.

Enthusiasm for the game’s degradation,
Unwittingly suspecting my abject failure, poor stakes indeed,
Nostalgia, his only childhood friend and confident,
Succulent in his ignorance.

My hand is played, the aces polished and laid,
Only friend, aside from our strange dalliance, only friend.
Lost in time to sentimental memories, but still treasured,
Chris’s chips are down.

Driver by trade, effortless to entrap in the merciless snare,
Summoned by a phone call, self-employed, others unaware.
Innocent by no means, a secret penchant for the bottle,
Accidents in the rear-view mirror.

I hand my beloved enemy the number,
‘The punishment must fit the crime,’ I remind,
‘In the wine cellar below you will find a wine press,
This must be the tool of his demise.’
I quell my urge to laugh, sweet is my revenge!
Surely Dyer-Bolique has not been so thorough,
Surely my aces have trumped his hand.

The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to quell that need within, eternally alone,
Until I saw the fire in his eyes.

Wrathful fire, flames that burn with fervor and fury,
Simultaneously they spark, incinerating us constantly,
Until I saw the fear in my soul.

The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to fall without a fight, unable to submit,
Until I saw the fire in his eyes.

Wrathful vengeance intertwined with intense craving,
Simultaneously needing the kill, struggle for control,
Until one of us drowns.

The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
Unable to relent, enforcing the arousing struggle,
Until one of us is extinguished.

Wrathful pride forces my hand, and I offer the sport,
Simultaneously unable to surrender, bloodied hands,
Until one of us is subdued.

The hand that is dealt, from emergence to ashes,
I lay my cards on the table,
To oppose the other’s supremacy,
We pick the prey of our opponent,
And the kill must go ahead.
Regardless of attachment,
Regardless of innocence,
Regardless of kinship.

The loser forfeits freedom, to the will of the other,
And the victor determines the price!

Confident of my ability, I await his response,
And my impending sovereignty.

Exsanguination at the Easel’s Alter

Strangely subdued, she surrenders to our intentions,
Minimal restraints required, posed perfectly.
Diabolical benediction spoken from the host’s mouth,
Sarcasm perpetuating through every word.

Outline paint required, torniquet tightened, needle penetrates,
As the needles of his eyes penetrate my inner thoughts.
My deception unveiled.
Crimson fluid pumps into the vial, expecting the dip of my brush.

Meticulously, I produce my art, his gaze burns with each stroke.
Outlining the haughtily submissive angel, I mar the canvas,
The unblemished habit forming within the scene.
Unblemished and innocent, my love letter to him.

A second vial required, coolly I fix her with my stare,
Knowing that her piety will deny me any response,
For she has faith.

Dyer-Bolique’s faith is lacking, but the potent chemistry remains,
Acid and lye, simmering, preparing for a mighty explosion.
Etching the canvas mirrors my etching of her frail skin,
The night drags on.

Her lips click with an arid thirst, but the seal remains closed,
Her hands cross on her trembling lap, the trembling consumes.
A wasted meal, for the mutton is tough, indigestible, noxious,
My antics prove less palatable as he relishes and loathes the test.

A final vial ensures closure, our masterpiece complete,
The Werther to his Goethe, despised for the truths within.
Exsanguinated and at peace, inflamed and charred,
But through the canvas her legacy lives on.

His wrath tears through as we become one,
Uncontrollable,
Unhinged.
I fear that I may win this tournament,
But have a more insidious game at hand.

Carved by His Hand

Complicit in your responses, feeding me the words I long to hear,
Yet I listen to the subtle ironies and undertones,
The microcosmic expressions that barely give you away,
Painful intentions to control and subjugate.
I sense it, I feel it,
Yet our secrets shared lock us in destiny’s arms.

Caution creeps in, and I play the fool, or perhaps the fool plays me,
‘Sister Aurora, a Godly woman in dress, but something wicked hides,’
My dishonest words cascade from the ridge, testing him.
‘Creator of murals, creator of etchings on soft skin her hubris.’
Do you sense my deception?

‘Artist becomes subject to our vision, stilled and starved.’
He gives nothing away, lacks expression, I delve deeper.
‘Charitable member of our priory, answerable only to God. Or us.’
My fingers trace patterns about his neck and shoulders.
‘She would come if called, assistance in the community.’

The snare is set, the seed of an idea rapidly shooting and blooming,
My grip tightens, kneading the tense flesh of my dire lover.
Needing the rigid flesh of my lover, gasping for his accord.
‘Would she not make the perfect subject for our canvas?’
My lips brush his as I await his stern response.

Inside I burn,
Inside I fear,
Inside I tremble,
Inside my suspicion flowers.
Is this what you desire?
Am I to be carved by your hand?

The Oil Painting’s Flaws

A noble offering presented,
Captive subject to their art,
Passive sitter, dehydrated as the brushes stroke,
And the kindred imps design their masterpiece.

Impressed by his magnificent suggestion,
I goad him on, desiring above all else to be his.

A noble offering presented,
My graceful body for his art,
Passive concubine surrendering to his affections,
And the splintered being breaks into my soul.

Impressed by his magnificent power,
I goad him on, at first, but his demeanor alters.

A noble offering pinned,
Captive subject to his grip,
Passive temptress, deflated by his masterful body,
And the cracks in the painting begin to show.

Terrified by his magnificent awesome domination,
I plead with him to show a merciful side.

A noble offering, I desire,
My fearful body for his art,
Passive slave to my own ravenous desires,
And the bars on my self-inflicted prison sketched.

Terrified by his ardent yearning, hungering for him,
I plead with him to offer his loyal adoration.