Who am I to become when my stories are obliterated? When I awaken naked and unarmed upon a shadowed rocky trail? It's not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies. I want the armor consistent with my role, both the lessons in the real and the comforting warm arms of happy home.
It's more than I can bear. I crack wide open. The scenery means nothing, I hide inside my wound. There's nothing left to bind the bleeding. I am open to the world yet intently blind. I sit upon a hillside counting rainclouds waiting for the lightening to strike.
(c) Feb. 5, 2006 Laurie Corzett
Pretty little images But I don't reach the core of sadness of breaking shattered glass of bitter calloused weeping of dregs gone down the drain clogging arteries, eating memories, etching out rotten stench interring my intestinal walls. I would love to bleed for you. Watch the shattered glass graffiti my windpipe, excellent sprays of red eye-popping splendour. I would never want to deny you the thrill. My craggy dry old heart laughs in anticipation. Fresh wounds always look so fine.
(c) Feb. 17, 2006 Laurie Corzett
Once Life and I have divorced After the estate has been divided (I playing noble disdain have thrown it all to her) I shall find a villa upon a hill To paint my masterpiece Discarded bodily fluids Upon the walls.
Murals carefully sprayed upon Bohemian brownstones Sauntering down the city street Aglow Lighting oily puddles, Intellectual cafes, Art houses, Freak show casas, Anointing the effervescent night Playing to the jaded, The amputeed, Outcast drifters.
There is a sweetly drifting tune Meandering like wisteria Is it a dirge? A sassy New Orleans carriage ride? Is it the beating of my heart Spraying a trail of bleeding homage? It is a wedding march, Played slowly, out of time, Beat by beat, more slowly Rewinding.
(c) Feb. 25, 2006
Honoring righteous anger. Not mean little sprites, Chironic knights protecting me. Cradling me so sweetly. "Oh, no, dear, never forgive, never forget." Torture is no way to say you're sorry.
Love whispered to me in dreamlike memory told me tales told me lies. I told myself those stories whispering in the night bereft of sleep. I told myself of soft surrender. Of gentle caressing days dappled in sunlight, lusty heat-soaked revelry sharing secrets so poignant, so intense. The anger burns me through each synapse, each myelin sheathe blood, guts, lungs, heart. Viral penetration, consuming strength, vitality, duration. I am languid and torn. From time to time I rally to fight my own tears, my own mind, my own field of battle.
No one comes forth for me to offer my surrender. Battle weary, I can no longer breathe. The anger breathes for me. Gently wrapping me in blankets, singing me a battle song urging me to take respite as it soothingly scrapes off the scabs refreshing my wounds.
(c) March 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett
For all the painful people wondering why god has forsaken hanging sorrows from a silent winter tree entreating penance. Still your blood does not flow pure. Never cleans the wounds. Festering. Poisoning. How can there be clarity? Peace is only equated with silence. I can not reach you through your pain through my pain through the loud, piercing blows, the cacophony of cause and effect, ruined fields seeded with glass. Beautiful prismic spires grow here. Someday awed children will play, sing, tell tall tales in their splendor. All we can see is razorsharp teeth so tender to bleeding flesh.
(c) March 18, 2006 Laurie Corzett
Black as hate; white and bloodless shrieking Fury punishing Saint. Your patient, erratic torture has left me broken, bleeding torrents of pain unable to move forward, unable to sleep or engage in polite discourse.
Yet you were never satisfied. It was not me you wished to sacrifice. I was merely inconvenient, or too convenient. Dressed in a goatsuit, queued up to be driven to slaughter, how could I expect compassion, fellow feeling? But it was the Executioner's blade I expected, not frenzied repetition of back stabbings, epithets, steel-wielding rage.
We could have been sisters, giggling secrets in the schoolyard, smoking pcp in the girls' room, shooting up the classroom, dying in each other's arms.
(c) March 26, 2006 Laurie Corzett
Transformation is not about butterflies flitting about, capturing our awe. It is the heart of pain you cannot feel for me. Searing cauterization, what would be condemned as unethical treatment of secret wounds bound up in tattered consciousness. Bit by bit, then all at once losing the thread, spacing out the conversation not quite catching the gist of why I am here and now. Did it ever make sense? How could I believe my lies? That papier-mache world I gave my soul sucked dry in enduring service was never true. I would cry but that would be too easy. The pain would dribble down; fascinated by the rainbow glisten I would count my misfortunes watch them spin pennies falling into a rose-glass jar. Filled with resolve, I would go back out into the fray, fight another day, and another until by decimating degrees I might fall defeated, dead and gone. But death is only an act of transformation. The whole play depends upon the spinning out of the tale. First you love, then you lose, then you do hard labor stoking the fires of Hell, breaking the rocks of Eternity, cleaning the rotting sewers of collective untreated waste. Stench, pain, nausea beyond bearability wrenches, renders, discorporates transforms. Not like changing into a bright, enchanting costume. Changing utterly because no other choice exists.
(c) March 30, 2006 Laurie Corzett
heart breaks and bleeds scarlet ribbons dripping into vital organs coagulating breath, thought, awareness there is no promised land of peace no safe harbour free of misery no bed of fluffy clouds foretelling happy dreams pain radiates a dark sun blotting out any possibility of light-hearted healing while leaving a clear stain bloody trails pooling into dead ends.
(c) April 21, 2006 Laurie Corzett
"You have a soldier's veins." The doctor chuckled as he explained the very good biological reason for my deeply recessed blood vessels, which always caused such a problem when medical professionals tried to take my vital fluid. Apparently I was made to fight medieval wars. The hard to reach veins, the slow metabolism keeping down the need for feeding, the ability to block out pain, hunger, thirst, discomfort of any kind, by focusing on the goal and getting there by any means necessary, good traits for those who must endure such hardships for a greater good, or simply to survive in battle.
However, here I am, a 21st century city apartment dweller, fighting mostly in the arenas of traffic and office politics. The old flight/fight adrenalin rush that wants me out there in the fray has to instead be pretty constantly quelled if I am to successfully fit in to modern civilization. So, the fight naturally comes to be against myself.
I am pretty well protected against the razor blade. My overzealous gag reflex keeps out the obvious poisons. I have found a way, though, through incremental poisoning of my soul with a fairly constant drip of despair. Slowly, insidiously, it eats away at what had meant to be protected, dissolving those veins from within so that I may succumb to internal bleeding.
(c) May 28, 2006 Laurie Corzett
A Cure for Cancer
Consider the single cell microorganism Motilely absorbing sustenance, senseless caught up in the acrobatics of immortality growing, dividing, growing, dividing accumulating ancestry without reflection. Life imitating life accumulating complexity, diversity, cells opening out from infinite regression demanding expanding territory, redefinition, delineation, demarcation. Cultivation of domestication implies devastation of the wild weed. Pruning the power of the divine monarch Poisoning the wellspring to discourage unfettered proliferation of perceived antagonists. If life is the disease, surely death is the cure.
(c) June 9, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
8 billion souls intermingling, interacting playing out roles through life ever-lasting each moving through dangers never dying 'til the end of their scripted scene then by any artful means dictated by dharmic drama
in the endless essence in a crystal snowglobe glowing with stardust growing in pristine clarity allowing brief glimpses of serenity before again shaken into a confusion of fantasy snow confounding the grace of vision unbounding back you go, into the thickening crowd into material purgatory into malice and dread buzzing swooning to the stench of burning flesh was that me? flashing in and out of reality ghostly voices in and out of dream repeating:
respect the fire that keeps you warm enjoy the calm enjoy the storm
I enjoy the frenzy caught up in ecstatic dancing beating, faster, faster than my heart can be broken eternally bleeding internally onto the scripted page.
(c) July 2006 Laurie Corzett
hungry zeitgeist, part 1
slivers, splinters, falling meaning catch it, send it spinning out into the stars bleeding rags catching fine red droplets shredded hands, hopes, hearts, dripping meaning I can't hold on, hold out, hold a good thought, dripping through agonized neurons, shattered mirrors unable to provide sustenance hold suction, bind the wound. embrace me hold so tight and tenderly as blood drips through your fingers touching my raw eroding senses with gentle rain, dripping, obscuring the view. I would curl up into destiny, locking my lacerations in dreams of false skins, tightening, holding fast to the edges. I would fall immortally into space, dripping inward. I would lock my dreams in pasteboard boxes, too tight for mortal breath. the words whirl around, whirl around, whirl like scattered bits of paper tears. I would hide in the deepest hold and keep to life slowly seeping through. but the hunger calls. it growls and jumps in fits to battle.
(c) October 20, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Again, I Demand, "Merry Christmas"
Merry Mass of Christ riven upon the four-fold way cut into deity and man on the crossroads at the witching hour. Sing praise of all things holy Make us see and feel the pain the horror of wrenching heart from soul. Of blithely obliging demonic Angel Fate that each generation may descend into fiery pits of degradation reaching, reaching into and out of the story, the path. If Christ is love, if love is what we worship, eyes closed in holy communion, what keeps us riven on the crossroads? What keeps us from reaching out to bind each other's wounds?
(c) December 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Encapsulating bubbling up the molecules into fairy stories of creaky old goblins sorrowful witches, ancient deities with too much to prove, coalesced and coated with bitter medicine. Caught in an instant, latent pain layered in ages bubbling up corrosive through epithelial walls. They are calling me, again. I pretend not to hear, not to feel, not to want to believe. They call with raucous derision: "Dear Hope," they spittle, "a flying thing, a winged chariot pulled by clever orphaned doves." Thirst pulls me to my poisoned well. I dare not drink. It will never kill me, but torture, weak and broken I will never be whole enough to move forward, to find sweeter remedies. Jagged mirrors encapsulate my heart. Viscous blood held captive loses oxygen. Blue and cold wintry depths I am held, hidden, a free-falling metal box cruel icy stinging denying the gift of sleep.
(c) December 29, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Killing me by degrees Each hour the executioner tears another piece from my life fabric. She aches for my heart tasting the sweetness of raw blood and pain. I have done the unforgivable. I have demanded my soul Uncleansed Unanointed for prayer. Hell is the mirror distorted refraction raising the temperature sucking oxygen into flame.