vulturepunk

Nobody's Martyr

2018-12-09T01:01:43Z

sinking in pain. I am the ten of swords.

I am tired of this life of hospital gowns and butterfly needles and orange medication bottles. I am tired of my knife-body. I am tired of pointless hurt. If I am to arch my back with brilliant pain I would like it to mean something. I am tired of being the stake-burnt martyr of no one and nothing. There is bitter glory in suffering for a cause, for a loved one, for a better world. Being young and ambitious and confined to a bed for months as you writhe in pain for no reason other than a dysfunctional body has no glory; it is only bitter.

"The man laying on the ground with ten swords in his back symbolizes hitting rock bottom. The ten swords in asymmetrical order symbolize defeat and endings that are completely unmanageable to the man on the ground. The red cape symbolizes his flesh. It has six swords in it symbolizing having nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. The four swords in the man’s upper body symbolize unwanted endings and loss. The sun is rising in the background dispelling the darkness, symbolizing a new beginning."

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vulturepunk @ 2018-12-07T21:19:00

2018-12-08T02:25:54Z

I should probably do something for an intro post other than old poetry so, hi! I'm Worm. I write stuff sometimes, lots of it featuring horror and faeries and death and trauma and prophets, sometimes other stuff too, not always terribly good but I always enjoy it.

I'm a young ex-farmer in college studying forensic biology and religion, although currently I am out of college on medical leave due to a heap of chronic illnesses and general problems.

I wouldn't really call myself part of the Great Tumblr Exodus of 2018 because I'm still on tumblr and intend to stay that way, but I'm testing the waters of this site just for kicks. I don't really know what I'm doing yet. Please be gentle with me.

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A List Of Places Where I've Met God

2018-12-08T02:00:59Z

i. Sitting at the bottom of the shower, rinsing the dye out of my hair
Walls spattered with red, a crime scene of sorts
And I, the exquisite corpse, dead but still breathing,
Dead and rotting but still doing silly living things, like dying my hair with a kit that cost $12.50 at CVS, and sitting down in the shower.
God climbs in with me, clumsy-limbed and far-too-late,
And I slap him in the face.

ii. In my bed, two AM, my body seizing violently
Shaking like a leaf, heart palpitations and tremor
Waves of nausea, seas of it
Pills still scattered by the bedside table. A glass of water.
God crawls under the sheets with me
Lays his cool hand against my neck
Fucks me gently with a butterfly knife
And strokes my sweaty hair back as I moan.

iii. Standing on the edge of a cliff, yelling at the thundering water below
“I EXIST! I DESERVE TO EXIST! FUCK, I DON’T WANT TO DIE!
OH MY GOD! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”
My jacket off, the pale spring sun touching my silver-scarred arms for the first time in years.
Crying and singing and screaming
And the roar of the waterfall swallowing it up
And god sidles up, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans,
And stands there beside me, smiling his crooked smile and tossing rocks into the river.

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Guerilla Gardening

2018-12-08T01:55:36Z

This is a poem about planting tomatoes
In the glass-strewn bowels of an abandoned building
Where the roof is caved in and sunlight breaks through.

We clamber over the fence
With our seedlings and buckets of dirt
And clear away debris
And plant a garden

This small, defiant act
And the tomatoes will probably die
And the city will probably bulldoze this building
In a year or two
And there will be nothing left to show of you or I or anything that lived here.

But the two of us, laughing
And the sun warm on our bodies
Illuminating your copper hair, haloing your freckles
Your acne-scarred face soft and gilded in the light
And our dirt-stained fingers pressing into the earth
Our knees on the concrete and everything smelling
Of things that are growing and green.

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The Grim Reaper Is A Shitty Boyfriend

2018-12-08T01:52:38Z

I am standing knee-deep in a lake and I’m screaming
“I’M NEVER GONNA DIE!
I AM UNKILLABLE! I CANNOT BE KILLED!
I WILL LIVE UNTIL EVERY LAST STAR GOES OUT!”
And I mean it, I’ve been flirting with death
Since I was eleven but he’s just not interested.
I bring him
Overdoses, bouquets of pills,
Razor-blade-kisses and wrists bleeding poppy-red into the bathwater
I am cloying, desperate,
Wrapping myself around him, begging him to look
While he plays Candy Crush on his phone.

Fine. The spark’s not there. The reaper won’t have me,
So I guess I’ll live forever.
I’ll throw out my knives, flush my drugs down the toilet,
Burn all the photos of us kissing on the Ferris wheel last summer.
I’m never gonna die.
I’m never gonna die.

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