I'm Kill Natalie. I'm a small town Goth with a taste for romantics. I don't do much but what I do is fantastic. I post humorous pictures, attractive human beings, and posts about atheism, libertarianism, and social hypocrisies
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Any comments you leave on my writing are greatly appreciated.
07. [POEM]
Mon amour, the ink sea
the tangerine moon, your teeth are
pressed pages of the most treasured books,
Song of Songs, Hymne à la Beauté
the blacks of your eyes are where the poet
dips his pen and composes the night skies,
the equinox, deep forests of
frigid pines where lovers dodge their
smiles like a dancing Artemis
My love,you are winter and you are summer
your eyes are the sea of Venus’s birth
your mouth my place of reprieve
you are clothed in infinities, a thousand
perfect tomorrows
You are the cosmos, where
both the singing robin and the
collapsing star are symbols of eternity
your voice is the cello’s hum
your hair is the singing grassland
My love, you are comfort eternal
you are splendor and excess
The Hydra [POEM]
I am a many-toothed thing
a single smile could fill the cupped palms of twenty thousand til
they overflowed with the polished ivory of a heathen’s mouth
the powder of snow my dismembered grin,
my shattered cavern of lies,
my falling blizzard of poppy seed teeth
I could laugh a thousand times with just one muscled tongue
and I have many
I have many faces and many eyes
and a hundred more masquerade visages so I may pucker my lips at strangers
and snarl at lovers
So that my cheeks may become sweet pomegranates from dancing, and
blowing kisses to the ocean and the damp, arthritic roots beneath the mountains
And if my corset is laced to my bones my displeasure is caged
inside a jester’s paper mache face
My painted lips, my powdered eyes
my opium breath, the gifted orator
cage the same hummingbird
the restless, singular heart
The face of the harlot, the atheist
is cut clean from its trunk
The artist and the libertine smoke tobacco
with expressions of the most mild concern
I am headless, for just a moment
before I rise from dust
and see with all my new eyes
06. [POEM]
coming as a thousand skeletal hands
fingers of winter branches and
an autumn sky the color of sorrow, granite
and the ocean in its concrete melancholy
the faded marble face of a stone saint
the immobile sculpted eyes made so very much alive
by the quaking shadows of candlelight
and the rising and setting sun
the wistful shadow, the ode to the somber
which passes though the human soul
like opaque water through the most embroidered cloth
despair comes by night and hides
in our most shadowed corners
until it may grasp us in the throes of envy,
the heart’s demise,
or the illusion of love
05. [POEM]
for eternity I’ve looked upon
injustice in its prevalence
I long to cup the Archeron
and sin to gain benevolence
with Michael’s wing beneath my heel
my mouth is death to bigotry
which wrenches closed like screaming steel
to praise the lord of heresy
for retribution’s decadence
for the seraphim’s righteous denial
in my unyielding vehemence
I’ll spit the ash of Sodom’s smile
the penalties of lies profound
will reflect against my winter teeth
catholic girls in ashen gowns
will bow beneath my cloven feet
like the bloom of pestilence
like the birth of genocide
my hand demands god’s reverence
and snaps the smile of jesus christ
04 [POEM]
the poet’s teeth are wet with tonguelessness
his audience is deaf to his throat
which is a cave where the sleeping rustle of
bats is as silent as the dripping stones by which
they sleep
the angels are philistines
who have never seen the cavern in which
their opposite rests, tired
and damp, made wingless
from his lack of pretension
man is a slug which must be
guarded from suicide, which it
chases with impossible strength
and fervency, though his
body is weak and he is almost blind
the corpses of humans are small
and their bones stretch against the
tarp of their containment
like a screaming hand beneath a sheet
which cries into silent oblivion
the poet cups his hands with nourishment
and his audience, howling, crawl
over one another with the hunger of dogs
too violent to eat
he is recluse, and rocks at sea in his own sorrow
03 [POEM]
where is the pleasure in suffering
that the heart had so often been promised
when it rolled with the blackness of raining
seas, when a wind blew and took it like dust?
with the guide of my Circe’s corruption
I know how loving and living conflict
to endlessly feed the soul’s disruption
which churns like the boiling mud of the Styx
contentment is a snowy rabbit that
dodges into the tall grass of ennui,
its heart pounds like a fist on a door and
escapes, ever frightful of company
Take comfort in the morning star, it’s he
who takes loneliness as currency
02 [POEM]
some I have known show love for the sun by
blasphemy of the moon (would you prefer
the sea’s trenches through the means of the sky?
In defense of her, she’s quite disturbed
to have disrupted the source of her life)
sympathy would have no limits had such
things not been done from the depths of her spite
the shadow of the night is chilled and hushed
like the garden of Eden caught in frost
why such hostile resentment towards murder
when value was absent and death was just?
lovers would feel different if they knew her
though hate is a blight, it’s loved more than most
pain is delightful when served to its host
A Chance Lost [POEM]
in which love is a naked ash wood branch
and the green sea sighs with a mother’s hum
how failed the pigments of a human’s hand
how ornate the soil of each’s tomb
could the value of my pen be measured
if overshadowed by a sky aflame
or smothered with a compare uncensored
which bathes my efforts in ennui untamed?
if birthed by earth then the brush is rendered
ashen by casual and frequent compare
and if some previous artist penned it
they were the thief of a poet’s despair
I might have held fast to the reigns of art
had I been born Baudelaire or Petrarch
