Category Archives: Poetry

original poetry by Allison Marie

// trouble //

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I am, even to myself, a strange and beautiful trouble.

Even in stark stillness I am a relentless expansion, a curiosity, a sin.

I am an indulgence, a soft and ripening ache.

I am a mystery, a wild collection of deranged contradictions to the things you want to see in yourself as you look at me.

I like to stroke a thing until it derails.

Pummel it to the ground and search its insides for clues.

I am the heady aftertaste of the way you are afraid to feel, and I feel deeply, probe hungrily, into those shadowy places you neglect, dismiss, judge, ignore, reject.

Your disturbance electrifies something in my bones, the oddity of you, the unlikelihood of any of this, wets and fills even the driest rivers, sends them rushing back from the dead through me.

I am not a problem. I do not need to be fixed or corrected.

This life – my life – is an ecstatic, rugged, savage territory and I feast upon it all.

Heaven and hell tangle within me, both are teachers, both are guides, both are Love.

Trouble is evolution is freedom is treasure. The most tragic of all are not those who struggle but those who concede.

.

.

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// phantom //

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And some day, maybe today, someone will read your words and they will not click the like button, and they will not leave a comment. They will not follow you or praise you or reach out to you.

And you will not ever know that they were here.

But they will have been changed by you. They will have been deeply caressed and loved through your words, and they will nestle into them, collapse into them, fold into them, keep them tucked inside the beating of their fragile heart all day, all night.

They will not say a word or leave a mark, for in the reading of your words they will be left temporarily unable to find their own.

Some words are born so that others may feel safe to die.

And all of this you will not know, for there will be no outward sign of the crossing of your hairline paths.

But your soul bears eternal fruit by the nourishment of this brief, secret encounter, for it knows of your having touched this phantom figure in the shadows. Your soul can see what you cannot; it knows what you cannot. It has always known.

This is the knowing you sense in the pressing whisper of your inspiration, calling you to begin, again and again and again.

Asking you to write for the invisible ones, that they may see.

These are the wings of things we seek to create for and don’t know why. There is a reason, though it is cloaked and shrouded in mystery and legend.

There are souls who come just to take a peek. Let them come, let them, let them, let them.

And on days when you feel you have nothing to be grateful for, that you are failing in faith and footing and love, you may be grateful for the ones who came to pass without a trace.

And remember again the greatness and strangeness, the vastness and beauty, the certainty of God.

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.

.

// crush //

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Some days it comes upon you in crushing waves, you can’t hear it but you can feel the pressure pressing in your ears. The monstrous mounting curl of the push to birth your creative thing plunges you to the bottom of your own inner abyss.

Free fall.

Your hands are fierce but helplessly slow against the darkness all around.
Everything you try to touch becomes punishingly deep and quiet as black ice.

You don’t dare breathe.

This is the place, the sanctuary, the cave, the distance between the two of ‘you’ who try to exist in a world neither quite recognize, where neither quite belong.

This is the altar you lay naked on and trust the light will come. You keep your eyes closed and listen with your nerve endings. You open your mouth and find your breathing but it’s not the same kind.

Some days the Muse is a beautiful beast so powerful you can scarcely believe you let her in.
And on these days, when you surface again and tell no one, what’s done is done.

Be grateful.

.

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// knots //

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all these knots inside
me
I need them
bite on them
admire them
offer them
to you with your
blue clay hands.
you
move your thumbs slow
down
my celestial chest
straight and narrow in
maddening designs
until I come
apart.
you have done this
with other creatures before
it takes no time
at all.
and one by one you
reveal to me the
kingdoms within kingdoms I keep.
you tell me I am
safe outside my skin,
that I am eternity in heat,
that I am an ancient geometric
grid
you must taste to
understand.
there is no
other way to remember
you have no
eyes.
and as you build your burning cities
in my heavenly
darkening mind
I am allowed to
watch.

.

.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// watch //

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Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.

Watch.

We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.

Writers are demons, gods, angels, train tracks, machines, tricksters, mobsters, bombs, wristwatches, lovers, strippers, criminals, skyscrapers, bugs.

But then maybe we’re all writers.

Maybe everyone is just terrified they’ll run out of words.

.

.

 

// silence //

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your silence lives inside me
snakes around the tender parts
that hurt and beg,
that would crawl a thousand miles on holy water to
drown you underneath.
while i’m busy with carving sandcastles, hiding
from the sun and servicing the afternoon,
your silence pours hot ocean waves over my chest,
lights a cigarette and
spends the night.
it wets the cunning valleys of my body down
in streams, courses through my veins
as i imagine your
release.
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
eyes.
your silence watches me
tongues the carnal wreckage of my darkness
licks the burning pages, tears and
discards them.
undone by beautiful delusion,
i know what this looks like
and what it does to you.
a single butterfly moves its wings
inside a shot glass
between my teeth
on the other side
of the world.
my perversion of you is handfuls of
machine fingers measuring my neck
dressing and undressing me in animal skin
shed by the gods who walked a dying earth
alone
only
decades
ago,
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
fists
gasping at the gasoline air you would feed me
but draw instead back in.
your silence it lives
inside me;
striking match after
match as
it speaks.

.

.

// desire //

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I am the consummation of desire.

I hunger and thirst and scream inside to quench an endless aching cycle of desires, wants, needs – some real, some required, some imagined, some sought, some denied.

This is how we breed and are bred.

Celestial oscillations between the shred of frustration and the collapse of molten satisfaction.

But the dangerous, the taut, the mysterious, the rare human creature will invoke a need without intent to satisfy it. She will hold herself within the tension between these two poles to find that satisfaction is not the pulse, anticipation is.

A willing mind hung inside this suspended place develops an affection for the unlimited richness, an overflow of toothsome sensations and experiences which exist only inside that electrified space between satisfied / not satisfied.

What a crime to live a life chasing nothing in the end without savoring the chase. How tragic to be ignorant to the divine clutches of raw frustration.

That which we deny, denies us.

What mad ecstasy to dangle on a hook, torn between the pleasure of attaining our desires… and the pleasure of not.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and affection. x

// art & sex //

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my sex in your mouth like
summer melting glass over steel city buildings
but i know better
that all we ever truly seek
to erect is
knowledge.
that the only real stimulation
is a taste of the torture of desire inside
a mind that finds its own reflection beautiful
in the awe struck through it by
wondering at the strangeness of
another;
a
twisted creature as
mad as
we.
the glory of art,
the hunger of passion,
the fall and rise of the crave to give and receive pleasure,
is ultimately a swimming out
toward fear
in the heavy hopes of
getting beyond it to a
place of peace.
you before me with your face
and your tears in my
hands.
we seek to know how to save
ourselves, how to release ourselves of
something we must break free of, some flawed way of thinking or being from which we
seek absolution.
we want to know, ultimately, intimately, in raw human form,
the gripping power of our own
divine mystery.
we want to be one with the Self beyond the self,
the Self that is free of these bodies we
obsess over, these alien bodies with their demented burning needs and their curious imperfections.
art and sex are creative
acts of faith, acts of defiance,
little spinning feathers of death.
the blood and sweat,
the pulse of this life,
the advancing pursuit of
solace,
is
treachery.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// kneel //

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the bend in the river
matches the way my
body turns away from itself without my
help.
when i write
i’m suspended somewhere between the life
they need me to live and
the death none of us will
escape.
inside i can feel the moons orbiting the planets and the
crushing energy of their cyclical motion excites me
everywhere.
i am the frenzy of the chaotic light and the nectar of the
infinite dark
i am the lion and the
lamb,
the altar and the sword.
i’m stretched in two, pricked by everything and awash in oblivion
trying desperately to worship
something intolerable
while begging
forgiveness from something i
don’t
understand.
in case you thought i was perfect
or a mess or
not trying hard enough
believe me, these things have difficult faces
that reach for me.
my mouth is a red velvet
confessional
of
words.
maybe i owe something i cannot
ever
recover
maybe we are all after something
we think and pray and hope is
release.
if i kneel before you
would you know
exactly
who you are?
life is not easy when
the air i need is your tattooed flesh
and suffocation is new life,
when i dream in the colored ribbons of madness
and this self-conscious world deflowers itself
for the gray.
the catastrophe of love is freedom
laced with
pain
and somehow we keep
on with
the
breathing.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// riotous //

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A writer is always writing. It is not something that ever leaves or sleeps.
Writing is an alien life force living itself through you.
It is born of you, gnaws on you, touches you in places so tender your only blind instinct is to kneel and listen. Writing is divine command, one hand on your throat as the other traces the curves along your sides.
The word is the shape of your shape, the gap between your thighs.
It is the collapse into rage, the madness of hunger, the fire you swallow and can scarcely believe.
Poetry ruptures in cascading waves from the motion of my lengthy body twisting in white sheets, I watch myself in dreams as you find your way across my steady breathing, slow.
Words like claws scratch their black rebellious ink in dark rooms I keep hidden in my psyche, centuries of breeding stories threaten to be told, forcing their rough thumbs against my patient lips.
When it’s time, I speak, and not before.
There is a creation I’m becoming, a creature at work on a canvas behind my eyes, inside my veins, it rises and spins, pulls at my lungs and my organs, I emerge for it bound and willing, we advance toward another place.
Prose grows swollen, thick amber honey in the way I scream inside a contracting womb for the pain beneath my skin at birth.
I’m hypnotized, transfixed, muted, strung out on flashes of light on the ceiling as you wrap my temptress hair in braids and I pray.
Like thunder slamming against the hollow caverns in my chest, the words take my breath in sharp clips and deliver it back to me in tremendous, crushing waterfalls, plunging over my grateful body, washing me clean.
Cold glances meet my reluctant gaze, I look to you and reach for something you carry in a place you’ve not yet seen, but I know where I left it when we came together last. You were a letter I was too terrified to send. I want to place my hands into your stomach and melt you, take you there against your will and watch you in ecstasy, this magical decay where all your senses are exceeded, expended and depleted.
Heavy footsteps against wet city streets, cigarettes for fingers, your graffiti back against the wall, all of it writes itself in the echo of typewriter keys punching on the screens running mad, the scribbled reels of static white noise ignite my riotous mind.
Flames writhing, licking at the edges of the sacrificial pages of my torn frustration, the way I imagine my wrists taste like metal wounds in your mouth. How I wonder what we are searching for and how we know the scent of homes and humans we’ve never built, never led, never kissed, never met.
There are words within me always, I part my lips around them in silence, in seduction, in the destructive core of every buried desire, in my inexplicable readiness to risk the full exposure of my bizarre script of uncomfortable perversions for them to see. Fear is never far from Love, one is the lurking thief of the other.  A dance we learn, the art of the way we play for keeps and returns.
Writers are always writing to die and writing to rise.
I am as the Creator created me Feminine, Masculine, Human, Divine, to deliver the keys to the doors to freedom and offer them as they open, one inside another, inside another; we are the gates and the guards, the beggars and the masters, we are the windows opening into castles in the sky.
These words in my head I need them, these words you’ve just read, I belong to them. I have come here for them, for them, for them until the end.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// alone //

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Alone is an animal, hunting and slaughtered for meat.

Alone is a criminal, thieving and caught by knives at the throat.

Alone is a deity, breathing and death for five thousand years rising up through your rib cage, staring back at you in the mirror, speaking with newborn tongues.

Alone is poetry eating itself, becoming itself, words created and starved on the disrupted exposure of human bodies in full orgasm.

The words don’t need anything you don’t have but they won’t commune, they will not burn you, they will not pray for you, they will not bear succulent fruit for less than their worth.

Present yourself, bow into them, swim out to them beaten and blind and they will hold you like the fearless hands of God.

She will bow beneath you, reach inside your blood and offer you back to yourself.

Alone is worship at the bottom of every violent river only to recognize the fear as the maddening feel of wet caves dripping inside your mind; it is nights under a moonless sky begging forgiveness, begging entrance, begging release.

Alone is waking at the swell of dawn in the quiet rain, touching yourself with the ghost hands of another who knew you once more intimately than you now know yourself, and waits like a lion in sharp blades of tall grass for your return.

Alone is sacrament, alone is masochist, alone is ritual, alone is feet on the floorboards walking through seven painted doors down a vacant hall.

Alone is handcuffs and liberation, broken pianos playing themselves in the dark.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// bare //

sorrow

Lay bare your softness.
Close your eyes and let your vulnerabilities fall in the darkness like heavy punishing rain.
I will take your tears into me like oceans of perfect stillness on the moon.
Let the sorrow splinter inside your mind, erupt over every inch of you, make you hot with surrender.
Let it in everywhere, let the gaping mouth of this terrible void devour you, drench you in the wisdom of her infinite healing waters.
Let Love have you, angel.
Let it press your war torn body against the floorboards.
And as the brutal weight of your crippling illusion collapses in raging spirals of ancient galaxies falling from the vacant sky, let go, let go, let go, let go.
This is strength burned into your flesh like beautiful scars.
Let the pain spark along your bones until you are consumed in the fires of release.
Let Love become you, own you, bloom a thousand blood red rose gardens inside of you.
You can take this, you are a vessel for all of this, you are the gift.
There are no acts of Love that cannot set you free.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// continuum //

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It’s as though everyday I wake up already searching for something, yearning before my eyes even focus in the dusty light.
I’m already roaming forbidden halls, haunted by something that is centuries old and restless.
Quiet like a stare.
Something intimate and beautiful is out there and we are reaching for each other, we need to borrow again the skin we shared once.
A love, a tragedy, a treasure, a mistake. An exception to my useless rules.
A body, a touch of sensual mischief. A moonlit forest in my hungry chest.
Some days we meet right away and the desire is sated for a while. Some days we meet almost too late, in a final breath at sunset.
Some days are spent entirely in static suspense and divine frustration – agitated, unfulfilled, disturbed.
But there has never been a day in all my life that my insides were not alert for this thing. That I have not made my soul available to her with reverence and devotion.
Hopeful for some way to connect with this graceful, wandering spirit I seem to have had once but lost.
Life is a continuum.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// lumen naturae //

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aroused by the sheen of night
i search within her aching folds
for the release we’ve been
too long
denied.
deep penetration of this thirsty spirit as i close my eyes
and enter into you
willingly;
i accept and reflect
all of you
fully.
your divine feminine hands
reach from within my dark and lustrous womb,
where before the first Thought of God
i became the tunnel of infinite darkness
within the spark of the eternal light.
this is where i wait for you, patiently;
still
stroking the gruesome silence
of a desolate landscape no one else
can see, but with the patterns in my blood
i recognize her breathing.
we unlock our raging souls from the rusted cages of
a thousand corpses
to become a richly pleasured and
chaotic seethe,
communication without sound, beyond symbols,
alone together and heavy with longing,
nourished, caressed, resurrected.
i worship and hold space for you,
faceless forgotten deity, you have spoken to me before the Word before
my bones could be conceived, you who seeks radiant entrance
into me
through the lost eyes of your hungry,
ravaged. exploited.
wandering
children.
i am open as wide as the world
is broken.
i will listen with a single smoldering
mind.
return to us your tortured magic.
destroy and rebuild your temple, priestess,
where light swallows the dark
and dark swallows the light
and the broken and the pure
may finally
unite.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// feast //

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my ravishing predator, the
ghost of you
takes beautiful shape
and walks at my side
all
the days
since that day,
walks through me.
it is
collecting me
one piece at a time.
borrows my heart
bargains with my pale body
stabs
at my back and
forces its tongue
where it should not
be
but i don’t stop the
haunt:
go
deeper.
skeletons dressing in my
skin
they grope me at length
for a desperate
love
a web of moth nerves that
will
not
die
feeds on my mouth as their wings
slip
inside;
a feast where i feast
anything to keep
them agile
and me alive.
you move your grayish eyes
like handsome stacks of headstones,
turn them to look
at me as
i burst into flames.
fires consummate the curtains and race across the sky
i am at home
again
here.
ashes to ashes
your burning breath takes finally my lungs
and a brilliant carnal
darkness drops
over all
the
earth.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

The Art of Mindfulness: How to Slow a Rainstorm

raindrops

How to slow a rainstorm:

watch.

Watch the way the water falls.

Watch the way the raindrops catch on leaves,

and cling,

then slide

away.

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