United Arab Emirates

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avatar: self portrait as a tehuana by frida kahlo

(riley, you go girl!)

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when i'm done with school i'll cut off all my hair and dye it green and wear only late-victorian stuff.

nolite te bastardes carborundorum

daulatdia #ekphrasis (3)

May 21, 2020



crude bones of bastardly cowardice, the child pleads— 
ashy rubble streaked across the face of the faithful

Do they tell you
about the filth on my skin?
The islands of blood-pocked reveries 
That my nightmares wear in sin?

the blood sings, gospel truth and wrenched godliness
from saline flesh. sainthood cannot be granted to those
who drink from the same well they piss in; progeny of
sheep, ignorant and hapless. 

My Mother, she lays bare
Her stretch-marked soul, on the
sheets of another man
And another.
What well, What drink
The air we breathe that chokes us
The hands we love that grope us
Our rail-thin bodies and their soles of hardened feet.

serpents smile under faux moonlight; witching hours
salem in the skin. the cassock will fall, bare shoulders
gleaming, fangs, pews of god tainted by sins of man.

I pay for in blood
While Justice licks my toes like a whore.
Where did the stars go wrong?
That the constellations strangle our throats.

sleep! sleep with wide-eyed terror, throats wrung to 
dry, inside out. testament of tears, these words have 
fallen from sodden lips, limbs, tooth for tooth. 

My Mother, she has come to hate
The smells of his flesh
My fingers crushed by the sinews of his back, he likes
His sheets stained in the colours of his eyes

pardon the blasphemy? 

Oh, his eyes
Blanched in lies and a certain form 
Of vast, deep sadness 
That drip off our fetid wings.

pardon the chastity?

Our tongues so fresh in your favour 
We plead to bathe in the pools of your sweat.

pardon the prayer?

God, have you forgotten us?
My mother, him and I
And our bodies,
We sold to your thigh?
this poem features agustdv's piece 'serpentine' (everything that's italicised is a part of her poem, as you can tell by the flawless diction). thank you so much for letting me use your work, it was so very kind of you. 

this is my take on a guardian documentary i'd watched about children growing up in a brothel village, called daulatdia, in bangladesh. 

 this was for the contest hosted by crow_e, tysm.


See History
  • May 21, 2020 - 11:26am (Now Viewing)

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  • joella

    oh my freaking god this is incredible! you weave your writing seamlessly through the original poem.
    "My fingers crushed by the sinews of his back, he likes/ His sheets stained in the colours of his eyes" and
    "My mother, him and I/ And our bodies,/ We sold to your thigh?"
    wow. good luck with the competition!

    6 months ago
  • agustdv

    I'm so honored you chose my smol dumb work for your lovely poem. That being said, brothel atrocities are so flawlessly and transiently woven into this, it only hints at it subtly, and then in full force. Adoreeee!!!

    6 months ago