poem: Shadow of a Muse (from "Shards" poetry collection)

I created her
I can do as I like with her
spray her with water, sparkles and chill
leave her in the snow to winterkill.
Or I could marinate her
in a cauldron of bronze and gold
I could add spices to the brew
Until she's boiled anew.

You know I am Victor Frankenstein
I am her Dracula
I am God Himself to her
I will do as I please and send her on the battle line
Where a company of soldiers will have their taste of her soft flesh
I shall lock her in a tower where she will never know man's scent.
I made her
and I can break her.

I will whisper sweetly to her
But only when I am sweet.
Other times I will yell and lash her
And with tears and hair, she'll wash my feet.
If she ever tried to stand her ground
With small trembling shoulders
I would stare and laugh.
"My darling, do not go there."

You know that I am the sculptor
and she the shadow of my muse
She is only worth what I say
Or worth the ways she can be used
If you suggest that she exists in a world beyond my lab
I will promise you, mister, that you are mad.
I made her
and I can break her.

I know that she has stood
Over my bed as I sleep,
Her breath in shallow waves,
A sculptor's scalpel in hand.
But I shiver not in the shade of her form
I know her capabilities
What she can and cannot do to me
"My darling, go back to ---"

poem: the Meat Grinder

I met my love at 7 years old

By the age of 12, it had me to hold

I’ve thus devoted

My everything

To this hungry creature,

My Love, a machine.

 

The factory whistle pierces

Our smoggy night

While in march the products

Of its other grooms and brides;

The paltry they farmed just

For this purpose

But I send in another limb

(of my own)

 

It favors the formulas

And ripened styles.

Be they brilliant produce

Or be they trite.

It’s more fixated

With the price tags

Than with the blood-drops

That I have wept.

 

The factory whistle laughing

Throughout sardonic dusk

While others’ cattles

March in, I send my bust.

At least it tastes me

And chews me well

Before it shrugs me off

(and spits out my shell)

 

“I respect your spirit”

It chortles at me

“You don’t compromise

For anything.

And if I don’t see you

Or congratulate you

I will always swallow

What you produce.”

Hardy-har! I put my heart down

On the conveyer belt

I strung out my veins

And gave them as well.

Slice by slice

I’ll be hacked away

And just to be forgotten,

Not a part of the menu’s dine

I should have learned to farm

And now I’m only a spine.

 

“What kind of farmer

Harvests themselves?

Learn the formula

And it won’t be such hell.

Every time you’re grinded

You foolish artist

you tried to make art

instead of market.

But as long as you send me

Your meat, I will eat

I won’t discriminate

But do not expect me

To stop the factory’s whistle

On your account!”

 

I understand, Meat Grinder

I know you have no heart

You’re here to consume

You’re not here for art.

But I’m only a spine now

Your warning comes to late.

I am already processed.

Bon appetite.

©2011 Luz Briar.

(A/N: Please click a response if you’ve read. I like to know if people are reading or not. Even comment if you want…The subject matter of this poem should let you know how tired I am of selective readers…)

Chisel in Hand

 

(Pygmalion & Galatea by Bulfinch)

 

I am asking you

Who gives a damn about

The finished sculpture now,

Without its feelings,

Or a soul, or a spirit endowed?

If it can no longer cry to you

With tears that empower

If it can no longer smile for you

As a gardener’s flower

If it can no longer bleed the blood

That falls for you to nurse

Than what use do you have of it?

What is this object’s worth?

When your object’s failings cease to be

Its personal tragedy

When that subhuman statue turns to see

The world in full humanity

And marble eyes fill with tears

That you did not supply

And leaks its salty water

Is it still lovely in your eyes?

When it happens to step into the sun

And into the night wind, curious

Will you say that it has shunned

Its creator, and abandoned him for play.

Chisel-wielder, do you see

How you look upon me

Not as a Someone with a reflection

But as an object for your needs?

A sculptor looking with aspiration

Never with full admiration

Chisel, ever in your hand

©2010 LuzBriar.

 

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