Tag Archives: poem

// 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 ~

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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

// 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

// 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 ~

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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

// 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

// 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 ~

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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

Erotica: Finding Pleasure in the Essential Art of Touch

Fair warning, lovers: This one will be very different from the others. (Are you reading this at the office, by the way? Because you might not want to be reading this at the office. But then again, maybe you really do.)

Consistency is divine but so is disruption. So is surprise.

This post is not about how to’s or fixing or changing anything. It’s about feeling.

Feeling. Everything.

Feeling, it seems to me, is a precious and increasingly scarce form of artistry. People are numbed out all over the damn place trying to avoid feelings of pain but also, in more cases than we seem to realize, trying to avoid feelings of good honest organic pleasure (because, you know, the guilt and the guilt and the guilt and everything – and then there’s the guilt).

Odd things, we.

Maybe it’s better (more accurate? more tragic?) to say that avoiding our feelings has become a twisted art form in itself.

Somehow, in these overcharged, overstimulating, hyper-sexed times, we end up numb and ashamed when all we really crave is to be touched and awakened.

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