The Nox Anthology - Dark Poets Against Abuse
| Fierce Strengths The collection of the works of Dark Poets goes on...a statement from a community of creators, that violence and abuse in our society will not be accepted. The poets and artists who have contributed to these pages have agreed that in lieu of direct payment, a regular contribution will be made to CASA (Community Action Stops Abuse), a safe haven organization for individuals and families striving to free themselves from abusive home environments. ______________________________________________________________________________________ |
a broken idol
by Laura Marie DePierre
wait
for the touch.
the musk of woman
in the air
mixed with her pale
perfume.
in comparision - nothing matters
but the way
she glides
across the room,
eyes half-closed,
face streaked
with the moonlight
from behind the blinds.
her hands will you
to lay back,
she wants nothing to do
with your face.
she is slow,
there is nothing now
but the small sound
a zipper makes
and her clothes yielding
to her movements.
she
is
slow.
nothing matters - nothing exists
but her mouth,
a vulgarity reserved
for when she is feeling
her most predatory.
there is a warmth,
a pure moist pleasure;
it spreads through
your limbs.
you are lost in it,
as it climbs your veins,
slowly,
in the jungle of her hair.
you can feel
the soft flesh
of her thighs
over your thighs,
and the breath you exhale
is short
and hot
and moist.
she turns her head
as she lowers herself,
you feel yourself
slide easy,
joined in depth,
but the two of you
by Laura Marie DePierre
wait
for the touch.
the musk of woman
in the air
mixed with her pale
perfume.
in comparision - nothing matters
but the way
she glides
across the room,
eyes half-closed,
face streaked
with the moonlight
from behind the blinds.
her hands will you
to lay back,
she wants nothing to do
with your face.
she is slow,
there is nothing now
but the small sound
a zipper makes
and her clothes yielding
to her movements.
she
is
slow.
nothing matters - nothing exists
but her mouth,
a vulgarity reserved
for when she is feeling
her most predatory.
there is a warmth,
a pure moist pleasure;
it spreads through
your limbs.
you are lost in it,
as it climbs your veins,
slowly,
in the jungle of her hair.
you can feel
the soft flesh
of her thighs
over your thighs,
and the breath you exhale
is short
and hot
and moist.
she turns her head
as she lowers herself,
you feel yourself
slide easy,
joined in depth,
but the two of you
are not one.
you are separate entities
contained inside your separate intellects,
these bodies are only vessels
for the minds which you convey
and you feel
this is
utterly
important.
you raise your hand
to turn her face toward you
and she is riding you faster,
not hard,
but rocking steadily.
you are in and out
and it is building,
momentarily distracting
but wait.
she is not looking.
you put slight pressure
on her chin
but she resists.
and now there is nothing - nothing matters.
nothing matters,
but she is an ice sculpture
you were designed to melt
from the inside.
you are the
embodiment of the
need
to
dominate.
her cry is small
as you push her
onto the bed.
you don't hear it,
you have her wrists
clasped over her head.
you are brutal,
you see her body shake
with every thrust,
and yet her eyes remain silent,
squinted shut,
she does not look.
you are growling at her,
these are primordial sounds,
nothing matters but having her give in.
she tries to pull her hands away,
you shove yourself into her,
deep,
and your grip is tighter,
she moans.
her eyes are open, now,
you are separate entities
contained inside your separate intellects,
these bodies are only vessels
for the minds which you convey
and you feel
this is
utterly
important.
you raise your hand
to turn her face toward you
and she is riding you faster,
not hard,
but rocking steadily.
you are in and out
and it is building,
momentarily distracting
but wait.
she is not looking.
you put slight pressure
on her chin
but she resists.
and now there is nothing - nothing matters.
nothing matters,
but she is an ice sculpture
you were designed to melt
from the inside.
you are the
embodiment of the
need
to
dominate.
her cry is small
as you push her
onto the bed.
you don't hear it,
you have her wrists
clasped over her head.
you are brutal,
you see her body shake
with every thrust,
and yet her eyes remain silent,
squinted shut,
she does not look.
you are growling at her,
these are primordial sounds,
nothing matters but having her give in.
she tries to pull her hands away,
you shove yourself into her,
deep,
and your grip is tighter,
she moans.
her eyes are open, now,
she moans,
you wonder briefly if it is pain,
and the smile
that smile
that is not you
takes up your face.
she is squirming,
and you are faster,
harder,
tears corner her eyes,
and you make sure
that every pulse
is to the hilt.
"stop"
she whispers,
and you have won!
but that is not enough.
nothing matters - nothing exists
but the need to destroy.
you jump off of her,
grab her waist,
turn her over,
you are thinking about that other girl,
you pull her onto her knees
line yourself with her,
you are thinking of hate,
and thrust.
she screams.
you insist, holding her hips,
she is in place
to serve you.
you are thinking about the first time
you were in love.
she is sobbing,
and you are faster,
faster,
you are thinking about your first time,
you are thinking about your mother,
you are thinking about dead things,
catastrophes,
the weight in front of you,
you are thinking about the rage,
about the nights spent tearing into pillows,
she is sobbing
and you are faster,
feeling the tightness of her -
the heat of her humiliation -
the satisfying pleasure of her degradation
wrapped around your being.
you
are
a weapon.
and as you fill her,
you are filled.
you have drunk her in
and she has received the
consummation
of your triumph.
you leave her there
a broken idol.
you have destroyed a potency,
the disenchantment of an ancient spell,
and in comparision - nothing exists.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
you wonder briefly if it is pain,
and the smile
that smile
that is not you
takes up your face.
she is squirming,
and you are faster,
harder,
tears corner her eyes,
and you make sure
that every pulse
is to the hilt.
"stop"
she whispers,
and you have won!
but that is not enough.
nothing matters - nothing exists
but the need to destroy.
you jump off of her,
grab her waist,
turn her over,
you are thinking about that other girl,
you pull her onto her knees
line yourself with her,
you are thinking of hate,
and thrust.
she screams.
you insist, holding her hips,
she is in place
to serve you.
you are thinking about the first time
you were in love.
she is sobbing,
and you are faster,
faster,
you are thinking about your first time,
you are thinking about your mother,
you are thinking about dead things,
catastrophes,
the weight in front of you,
you are thinking about the rage,
about the nights spent tearing into pillows,
she is sobbing
and you are faster,
feeling the tightness of her -
the heat of her humiliation -
the satisfying pleasure of her degradation
wrapped around your being.
you
are
a weapon.
and as you fill her,
you are filled.
you have drunk her in
and she has received the
consummation
of your triumph.
you leave her there
a broken idol.
you have destroyed a potency,
the disenchantment of an ancient spell,
and in comparision - nothing exists.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
reno
by Laura Marie DePierre
collapse on the bed in the cheapest hotel room in reno
went jogging in the snow at 5 am
the drunk couple who rode the elevator up with me
are fucking down the hall
and I think of you.
this city is lonely
the old people in the casino always smoking
having heart attacks over slot machines
gobble up your cash
but not like Vegas.
I write this to her slurred cursings
contrary reminds me -
your verse flows so freely
like water from a faucet to fill a bathtub, my skull.
I need to bathe.
my prose is so jer
ky. stops ab
ruptly. spins
around like
half of a wheel.
you speak of cohen and waits to me
your 11th, 7th chord blues men
you say that I would look good in paris
at a party, sipping champagne, in some sexy black dress
take me with you.
that night we spoke prose to each other
voices in low, most inviting, sultry tones
sidelong glances
kisses stolen
heat
wet windows
break -
and she screams
hot climax down the hall
I need some liquor, some aspirin
release what's in my head.
but I just twirl pencil and close eyes.
I can't say it all to you
not even on paper.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
by Laura Marie DePierre
collapse on the bed in the cheapest hotel room in reno
went jogging in the snow at 5 am
the drunk couple who rode the elevator up with me
are fucking down the hall
and I think of you.
this city is lonely
the old people in the casino always smoking
having heart attacks over slot machines
gobble up your cash
but not like Vegas.
I write this to her slurred cursings
contrary reminds me -
your verse flows so freely
like water from a faucet to fill a bathtub, my skull.
I need to bathe.
my prose is so jer
ky. stops ab
ruptly. spins
around like
half of a wheel.
you speak of cohen and waits to me
your 11th, 7th chord blues men
you say that I would look good in paris
at a party, sipping champagne, in some sexy black dress
take me with you.
that night we spoke prose to each other
voices in low, most inviting, sultry tones
sidelong glances
kisses stolen
heat
wet windows
break -
and she screams
hot climax down the hall
I need some liquor, some aspirin
release what's in my head.
but I just twirl pencil and close eyes.
I can't say it all to you
not even on paper.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
Her Body is Her Temple
by Laura Marie DePierre
Stars -
There is something,
there is something,
there is always something.
Stripping live on the internet to pay the bills -
NO MORALS,
the professors say,
and they have no idea
how much they echo
each other.
Dirty -
looking for the word of God,
having sex in stiletto heels
with a cross around her neck.
The Lord once removed,
praying by candlelight.
Blood magic
is the only magic she knows
and fate doesn't make out
with Christians
angels can't do miracles
for Pagans,
so either way those scars
aren't healing.
superstition
is a malevolent deity
and in South America there are priests of tribes
who do nothing but heavy drugs
and meditation -
blackout spells hunting small animals in the jungle,
killing with their bare hands,
eating flesh raw.
She,
once removed, is a reminder of sex,
nothing there but a guilt -
and people worship with dance,
with song,
she worships with
her body is her temple.
unafraid to explore,
talking to God everyday,
listening to God
while naked in bed
with pert nipples,
it is hard not to blush
in the face of omnipotence.
There is
There is that feeling again.
Afraid to be punished for her sins,
afraid there is no life after death,
afraid that her car
won't start in the morning
because the condoms were sitting
on top of the children's
bible.
Stripping live on the internet.
NO MORALS,
her professors say.
And she doesn't need drugs
to talk to her gods.
She's tango,
she's Broadway,
she's whore house,
and tramp.
She worships with
her body is
her temple.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
by Laura Marie DePierre
Stars -
There is something,
there is something,
there is always something.
Stripping live on the internet to pay the bills -
NO MORALS,
the professors say,
and they have no idea
how much they echo
each other.
Dirty -
looking for the word of God,
having sex in stiletto heels
with a cross around her neck.
The Lord once removed,
praying by candlelight.
Blood magic
is the only magic she knows
and fate doesn't make out
with Christians
angels can't do miracles
for Pagans,
so either way those scars
aren't healing.
superstition
is a malevolent deity
and in South America there are priests of tribes
who do nothing but heavy drugs
and meditation -
blackout spells hunting small animals in the jungle,
killing with their bare hands,
eating flesh raw.
She,
once removed, is a reminder of sex,
nothing there but a guilt -
and people worship with dance,
with song,
she worships with
her body is her temple.
unafraid to explore,
talking to God everyday,
listening to God
while naked in bed
with pert nipples,
it is hard not to blush
in the face of omnipotence.
There is
There is that feeling again.
Afraid to be punished for her sins,
afraid there is no life after death,
afraid that her car
won't start in the morning
because the condoms were sitting
on top of the children's
bible.
Stripping live on the internet.
NO MORALS,
her professors say.
And she doesn't need drugs
to talk to her gods.
She's tango,
she's Broadway,
she's whore house,
and tramp.
She worships with
her body is
her temple.
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
(c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
| ____________________________________________________________________________________________ We thank the contributor of this page, and ask that readers respect her copyrights. Do not reproduce or distribute this art or poetry without the author's permission. |
Laura Marie DePierre was born in Okinawa, Japan, and currently resides in Arizona. She co-founded
an outreach program organizing safe activities and teaching STD prevention to GLBT youth; she
has traveled with UNLV's jazz band, and founded a non-profit art collective. She now teaches
classes on occult theories and practices. Her illustrated book of poetry is called Red Rings of Wax.
To experience her further, please visit her web site at: lauramarie.dagazschoolofmagic.com
an outreach program organizing safe activities and teaching STD prevention to GLBT youth; she
has traveled with UNLV's jazz band, and founded a non-profit art collective. She now teaches
classes on occult theories and practices. Her illustrated book of poetry is called Red Rings of Wax.
To experience her further, please visit her web site at: lauramarie.dagazschoolofmagic.com
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