rachel prince
frankenstein place (working title)
...
In the velvet darkness, there’s stones, stacks,
Cobwebbed curves in gothic iron gates – their black sheen, sloping arches of grace, dark branches and leaves spiked, sleeved,
there's vines that coil up
the green of my throat
and leave an ivy leaf in my mouth, not quite rubber, not quite crisp, its stem between my teeth.
I lick the dust off castle walls with the sweep of my finger (ring), stroke of twelve.
Cobwebbed curves in gothic iron gates – their black sheen, sloping arches of grace, dark branches and leaves spiked, sleeved,
there's vines that coil up
the green of my throat
and leave an ivy leaf in my mouth, not quite rubber, not quite crisp, its stem between my teeth.
I lick the dust off castle walls with the sweep of my finger (ring), stroke of twelve.
The swords through my lobes just aren’t sharp enough
but you grab my hand, and I chase you round and round
through winding carpet and highly strung ceilings, past armour and stags,
staggering with the clatter of my clumsy feet, the stiffness of my movements clad in metal, over and over.
We find nothing and no one in this Frankenstein place,
run and never settle.
Don’t dream it.
but you grab my hand, and I chase you round and round
through winding carpet and highly strung ceilings, past armour and stags,
staggering with the clatter of my clumsy feet, the stiffness of my movements clad in metal, over and over.
We find nothing and no one in this Frankenstein place,
run and never settle.
Don’t dream it.
...