Details |
Bea Marchand Poem
Modernland has legalized murder, they roll these streets
Billyclubs in tow, those weak are taped and tortured
Throw'em a gun and a bullet grinning through glass
As those who suffer pull the trigger, bang
Darkness isn't evil, the real monsters are people
Art is rebellion, they want Armageddon, life isn't Christmas
They decide who gets presents, I'm number one
On the naughty list, then, some call it divine intervention
Others say entertainment, I say sacrilege to the manes
Copyright © Bea Marchand | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Bea Marchand Poem
I will never turn down.
Krvava mesecina.
Hung in oxygen.
Before sin.
Primordial itch.
"Eat me, bish!"
The Apple's bagpipes sigh.
Pulse tartan, worm thumb.
"Bite me, then!"
She lunged.
Teeth met.
The Apple giggled.
Abyssal depths.
Lined with a razor's edge.
Lobotomized.
Passing the 'Hatter Hole'
Rabbit twitched on a spit.
The March Hare.
A taxidermied monstrosity.
Sipped gasoline.
The Dormouse?
Don't ask unless you want to sleep.
"Have some wreak,"
The Rabbit-Hatter shrieked.
Offering Sally a cup filled with centipedes.
"It's ever so good for the complexion.
Turns it inside out, you see!"
Of course, she drank.
That is why she came.
What else was there to do
in a world where the sky was made of screaming faces
and the ground was a giant, pulsating tongue?
Her skin unzipped, ripping
Underneath?
Butterflies.
Millions.
Each one, the face of an infant.
Sally exploded into language.
A torrent of gibberish, profanity.
Poetry_unadulterated madness.
She became the landscape.
The nightmare.
The putain itself.
The fastest way to get where you need to be
Is through a door; many haven't traveled
And those who were, couldn't understand
The ravine was full
Shopping carts and baskets
No items in them
They hate everything about horror
Modern philosophy is to determine how
I kept pendulums moving in outfits
Borrow money
Borrow a car
Some will borrow who you are
"Can't you feel her kicking
She's going to be a star one day, burning brightest"
'Wrong Way' - and it all rolled the dial tones
Something, probably, never know
So everyone on here is just a thief
Online poetry is for the birdie
Time to write their songs
Lesson one: stop testing poems, your training them
Read the fine print, they are fake anyway
Lesson two: the machine can be stopped
Moral ambiguity, won't replicate a warlord
Lesson three: everything online isn't yours anymore
Terms and agreements, you clicked agree
You are training the machine, legally, no problem
Until you make it one, I have no worries
And I'm here if you want to get loud
I got metal in my mouth
Lastly, you allowed the simulacrum
Manikin poets exist now, you condone plagiarism
Modernland Scribes copy and paste
New lens and your line to line
All my pieces are Nihilartikel
Heed my example
And not my footsteps
Shut down that empathetic system
You realize, I'm one of the LAST
Transgressive/macabre poet(ess) left
Pay attention to what you're doing, please
Poets are supposedly deep thinkers
Copyright © Bea Marchand | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Bea Marchand Poem
Had a moment to collect the tickets
Punching out the timecard to the apocalypse
A striptease stripper with syntax and enjambment
Graphic designer's valviloculus pleristaminis in an ordinary garden
Many try to pluck me as a weed
Aforetime rose from a park of simplicity
Frozen in a piece of sap, timeless; the shears remain
Closing their fists to pump in the air polluted with rabble
Always aiming fingertips at me
They never hear the caoineadh at the end of the block
Now I sit attentive, straight because I want to, and middle fingers up
Voice echoes that silences their babble
"All that power, and you aim it at the one helping others"
Shift in their stature but rictus in their feature
Unlike most times my voice is softest
"I've watched you let something beautiful die for the hue
Our ténèbres shade on the petals flew
Now it is alabaster, what say you?"
A murmuring mobster-made man moved maliciously
"You write horror that terrifies people
We don't want to be afraid anymore"
My feet slid on that cobblestone sidewalk towards him
"Then use your gifts as a weapon like you did in this moment
Why do you think you're afraid of my writing?"
The wind picked up speed and the sky became nightmarish
Rain poured in tidal waves, a bloodbath
"You killed poetry... and I'll never let you all forget that
You're afraid of failure... can still do something to save literature"
He shook his head side/side slowly
"We choose empathy"
"... well I choose Hurricanes"
Lightning in violet flowers above
One by one mechanical snakes slithering up, anacondas
Any that approached me were met with plasma
For a moment me that man and I made eye contact
Before he was wrapped, slowly squeezing out every word
Then swallowed whole and absorbed as data
Serpents hiss dial-up before leaving/leaving behind entrails
What was left for ourselves, for our children's children?
Pandora, I'm sorry, it can't be closed, hope is tainted
It keeps rising, waist, chest, neck, sanguinary baptism
My thoughts as the taste of iron kisses my lips
Was there anything but darkness, where is the light?
... It never existed, a myth that never came true
... I'll die knowing I did what I could, my hand remains unethical
"Astramentous inkling in a crystal bowl"
Copyright © Bea Marchand | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Bea Marchand Poem
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
Copyright © Bea Marchand | Year Posted 2025
|