​The Ecstasy of St. Teresa
 
Hot flesh,
smelly citrus
and metal.
Underflesh,
blood.
 
Smelly flesh,
delicious blood,
cleverly hidden
under
orangey-flesh
blood.
 
Metallic kisses on
clever necks,
citrine canines
puncturing pungent flesh.
 
Release the bloodgates,
the metallic taste of
transmutation.
 
Drained in the
trapgrasp
of passioned
body language,
the
shriveled lover
of the
little death.

- C.Lucine

Here's a poem I wrote on 1-23-16 using a "cut-up" method of chance, where I wrote down various quotes that I use with my Instagram pictures, cut the words out individually, and then drew them out of a bag one by one and wrote them down. Tristan Tzara-esque anyone?

"Cassandra"

Hope,
few seek out
transformations.

What a wonder
how true
one understanding.

Woman am I, many my
mystery. 

"Myrrh and lilac
don't always seem of
science,"

her says,

"magic is curiosity,
is a kind of remembering
...and still is.
The always love
is a crowded café of
quiet silver."

Possessed is the
searching earth,
the haunting guarantees
the saddest happiness
we understand. 

The hunt,
Absence of will,
but Saturn
I cannot find
the disguises
that know,
and still...

happiness is never
the unknown.

The future there then,
taking knowledge
through
knowledge,
the thing for the things.

A pleasure consistent,
we are more attractive
in their stories,
and I her,
the one
we of possession
know about.

The better looking the
fever,
the most sparkling is her
mystery.

C.Lucine