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Chelsea Westerfield Poem
Xanthous vipers crumble and
Copulate on pallid bursts
Of violent ash and vapid sand
Drunken blows to swollen bones
Macabre and salty, bitter and grand
While wolven maws abuse brash lips
Gluttonous passion
Simmers on pendulum hips
Thrashing crests of poignant skin
Fevered, gasping, blissful sin
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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Chelsea Westerfield Poem
How ***** the color of viscera
squarely foreign in my breast
To be the butcher and grim and goddess
All in one
Leaves identity succinct
Or identifies succinctness
If it has been
Then so it was always before
Therein is 'Peace'
Reposed and eyes rolling
Great, vacant saucers on vertiginous axis
She is quite the swollen beast
And on all fronts, she is terrible
If only you'll watch you may notice her growth
A malignant sort
An unwelcome appendage
I'd dash it out but I've already gone
Too pale and dogged in life to succumb
I curse her tenacity
She has a sister, I think
Or maybe a child
A child who lives down deep in my chest
A child who shrieks and tears down the walls
Perhaps she dislikes their pattern
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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Chelsea Westerfield Poem
Surely to know the ambrosial quiver
Of stiffened fruit, ripe and swollen
With stolen fragrance and lovely flush
Of seeded solvent all down a furtive face
And up the greedy pink arms of cloud-ward reaching children
Is to know also the jealous rain
Her green glances gorge on mellow delight
Indulgent and impatient with quick eyes
Snatching strokes of waxy flesh
Torrid caress under an austere guise of gray
She is a lean and idle glutton
Who lashes in strife with quickness and lusty strikes
It will be a feast of soul
If you do not slay her first
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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Chelsea Westerfield Poem
Breath stolen breeds sharpness
Borne backward into infantile shrieks
The spinstress of sinew waits bated
For abhorrent heat
Of combustive, collapsive
Crossfire from echoing throat
Or burnt-bridge lungs
A visceral nymph thoughtlessly thieves
On Benedict tongue
Thrashing in maddened pace
Too shrill a manifesto
Skeletal soldiers charge
A red hill
Unsteady, uneven, not ready
Frenzy, not frolic
I am not a goddess
There is something to fear
I am something, I fear
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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Chelsea Westerfield Poem
Spoiled scraps of wasted day
Deflate and soil the leveled West
Bruised and bitter they copulate
On an amethyst bed
Too feverish in haste to note
Their plush hues have harshened
The hour came so suddenly
Now all at once must they drink
People's Temple refugees
Squared away and nervous
In their new, nightly Jonestown
Their reverend is hiding
Bright as he is, he sweats
Half hidden under groping land
Mostly melted into reaching trees
Will he come again come morning
Only stars will be awake to see
Until then the night is black
And very lonely
Chelsea Westerfield
August 6th, 2013
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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