MAYHEM
Issue Three – October 2015
ISSN 2382-0322
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Renee Boyer
Ars Poetica: Viscera
Poetry is the soft pink
inside of your ear,
the slightly-too-sweet
of strawberries left out
on a summer’s
day. Poetry
needles, burrows its way
into your bloodstream. It does not
care about sleep, or meetings, or
bags with no pens.
Poetry bites, just hard
enough to break
the skin.
Poetry tangles itself in
your fingers, old
gum stuck under a desk,
still stringy.
It arrives when you
are running, showering,
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
Issue Three – October 2015
MAYHEM
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
fucking, sitting
an exam.
It wrenches you from
dreams and demands to be listened to.
It strokes you inside
until you gasp with longed-for
pleasure,
then rakes you
with claws, bone deep.
Poetry is the
catch in your throat,
the wobble,
the water welling unbidden in
the corner of your eye.
It is the jolt in
your stomach that
liquefies you, and
the whine of the
mosquito you can’t
kill.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
Issue Three – October 2015
MAYHEM
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
It is the powder soft scent of a baby’s head
the rough of two-day stubble
on cotton
the thick of fresh wet clay.
Poetry whispers, it screams,
it climbs into your
ears and dances on your eardrums.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author