face fun

a horrible place to be

hard poems (II)

gemido

that water is cold
but it does not refuse to touch you
your skin is astonished
but it remains
there is something pure
almost a remedy
it turns you red
it turns you blue
and your blood stampedes in confusion

something like a snake bite
a needle of the sun
it hurts me, baby
just a little
just a little bit

S. Sparling

hard poems (I)

grito

cracked angel she is the bitch in heat
with the weather crying blood mercy
she smells of a million tear drops
she smells of the sea
and the salt giveth and taketh
and the water drowns and drowns
but we can hold her eternal
strapped down by leather belts
tied to chair legs and the kitchen sink
these are the old ways
the forgotten ways
a ritual of blue bruises that sing
and the dog that croaks to the ceiling
this is how saints are made

and what of a star's sex?
it is burning and burning
always dying
burning and burning
a million years ago
when you feel her heat
see her light
she's already gone

S. Sparling

Hercules

Labour (I)

copper like a drip of a grecian spear

on fire, the womanly scripture

voice of a thousand early birds

she is looking at you

expectant of the future

with no eyes but the eyes for you

and no lips

but the ones that posses a hunger

to never be alone

s. sparling

Labour (II)

amazon of the sea you have neutralized me

I am a conquering hero of the tomb

threw cat gut and whirlpools out to feed

like an eternity I am a password

so I am a saint.

god of so many.

so I can heal you

with my hands...

it's been light out here for days now

there does not seem to be a sun

just green and the colour

to haunt all lives

s. sparling

necromorphia

cruel tales

animal haus

vision

music to make you dream

Shamania

there in the neptune of the sky

a thousand women circle with their hands in each other's

and together, as one, they squat and urinate on the earth

there, where the equality of a thousand men prepare themselves

and each shit into a copper plate

offering a burning sacrifice to the heavens

saying: hey, we are feelings

we are food for the gods

hunting for the sweet eggs

becoming mirrors in that great green grasping silence

that was the age of anguish

where the forlorn philosopher fed himself a rail

it was only the flicker of thirsty yellow lights that called to him

and bathed him in their mellow arm

so sleep came into the caves of thought

furnishing all with a single scarlet mask of death

it was for the fingers

a separate love for each digit that wandered alone

in between the clefts of flesh

digging for water

or whatever else

it was for the fingers

swatting at black flies who are bloated on death

the only natural death left in this

the age of passwords

speak me a shibboleth

they left for me two red pennies of unlucky virtue

and the skeleton of a sparrow not yet dry

but moist with the limitless nutrition of angels

it is june and it has been raining for days

my dog looks up to me from between her regret

I feed myself a rail and continue

s. sparling

bad dreams

*heavy piano noises*

been stuck in my head all day

VHS satanica

the-scandy factory

god's bounty