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Dee Sunshine

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Member Since: Jul, 2003

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Featured Book
The Playground Is Dirty
by Shirley Woods

Remember the choices and decisions that are made by Teenagers will definitely affect the rest of their life. Please be aware and conscious of your actions and behavior...  
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She Holds Herself So Tight The Skin Turns White
by Dee Sunshine

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From my collection, "The Bad Seed". E-mail me if you are interested in purchasing it.



















SHE HOLDS HERSELF SO TIGHT THE SKIN TURNS WHITE


she holds herself so tight the skin turns white/
the skin so tight, she curls/ an embryo form/
a curve of laughter behind mirrors/ she agonises
her agonies/ washes herself in moonlight/ her
body bleached/ curled up pale upon the rocks/
a whisper of finger, curled on her breast.

her hair is black, oil black/ witch’s hair, her
hair/ her cunt hair is a finger/ cool blue finger/
drawn with lipstick licks/ her eyes are black/
black as jasmine oil/ black as inside out mirrors.

her eyes are black as a jazz song/ her skin as
white as the crone moon/ inside her, the moon
is an ocean.

inside her, the baby seed grows/ she vomits/
collapses in a heap of her vomit.

the cigarette burns down/ his hand is motionless,
curled round his metal penis.

the ocean does not wash her body smell/ does not
wash away the jasmine, sweat and come/ it breaks
her body on sharp white rocks.

her laugh is a thousand splinters.

white rocks, white body, white moon/ the blue sky
is too blue/ it hurts the eyes/ too blue, like the
waters breaking on her shoreline.
she dreams that she’s an island.

the sky is too blue/ the grass is too green/
too green, like the too green snake which slithers
on its belly thru’ the too green grass.

the trees are black/ just right/ black, like her
witch’s hair/ the trees reach up and reach up.

she holds herself tight/ her skin, white/ tight/
taut/ an embryo form curving/ carved from mirror.
her belly is ripe, but the milk is sour.

* * * * *


her glass gown was too long, too tight/ she should
have danced all night.
oh baby, oh baby, please!/ his voice teased
her clothes to splinters.

* * * * *

her black hair dangles loose/ untied of its rainbow
ribbons/ black hair against white skin/ lipstick
lips painted on a bloodless face.

cunt red/ the lipstick kisses on his brass torso/
“oh baby baby please”/ cunt juice acid on his brass
cock/ glass splinters in his hand/ glass/ brass/
glass/ fragments of carriage clock/ a chronological mockery.

chronos: the god who sucks the soul.

* * * * *

the ballroom is empty/ masks & broken glass on the
polished floor/ the caretaker sweeping up/ his
uniform, blacker than the night.

she is eggshell/ laughing/ washed up/ white/
her hair, black as bitumen, reeking of jasmine
oil.
he is brass, skeletal/ robed in black/ black
as kristallnacht.
she is oval glass/ splintering/ fragmenting
to the dead moon’s call.
he stretches out his metal fingers/ they are
all for the grabbing/ greedy baby/ his only wish:
impregnation.

* * * * *

oh baby baby please/ the black semen saturating
the milky egg/ his naked brass body, suddenly
limpid/ the acid seed in her belly/ fragments of
metal & glass scattered across the polished wood
floor/ luminous brass/ opaque glass.

he sings in his sleep/ oh baby baby, I’m begging
you please.
she listens to the moon and the waves in her
belly.
she cries a river of glass and jasmine oil.


in her palm/ a sliver of glass/ the wound, a cunt/
a stigmata/ a reminder: there is no joy that cannot
be broken.
for every cocktail there is a crucifixion.

* * * * *

she is white, cold, alone/ the baby grows inside
her/ a monstrous incubus, sucking the life out of
her.
she is eggshell bits, splinters of glass,
specks of moonlight/ all wrapped up in dead white
skin.

the caretaker sweeps her up/ into his plastic bag/
black/ black as the devil’s seed/ he sweeps her up
with all the weekend’s detritus/ bottles, cans,
cigarette packets, condoms & paper hankies/ lipstick
containers, masks and fragments of brass & glass.
he pushes his brush languidly thru’ all the
trash/ whistling his favourite pop song/ oh baby,
oh baby please/ i’ll get down on my knees...

she curls up in a thousand splinters/ curls up in
the rubbish of a thousand dreams/ she only wanted
to dance/ she only wanted to dance.
the crone moon calls her/ calls the waves in
her belly/ she curls up/ cramps/ the skin ripples/
taut/ tortured/ impaled/ she holds herself/ tight/
she holds herself so tight the skin turns white.



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Facing the Demon of Noontide is a poetic meditation on the soul in a postmodern setting. This collection of poems by Ian Irvine breaks new poetic ground even as it deals with the h..  
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