Lilith

I do not find it fair
That a woman clad in
Lures and baubles,
Pulleys and
Levers should bear the
Offspring. A boy blistering
With curiosity. Of the two of us,
Which is clever?

Each in our own way,
I presume. I can craft
Malleable mechanics of a bitter tongue.
She squats at an invisible
Loom weaving webs of crones.
A sullied spider.
She denounces where they're from
Despite their helix hoisting through canal.
It is a temporary platoon, never
Forever.
Which is more clever?

I tasted gold in a garden,
Wet grass on my feet of folly
And found a classifier
On bench, a jittering cheek on his
Shoulder that was mine.
I felt the sculptural smoothness.

Warmth. A bliss I didn't want

To know and didn't want

To miss.
The wench superseded me.
You see, this is reversed.
The entirety is a misnomer.

I do not find it fair,
And to be frank, I am wise.
I pierce the guise she lurks behind.
An obelisk of immorality
Towering, towering, and I stand
Glowering, wishing she would fall,
Splintering to the pure plasma:
An innumerable expanse of broken

Porcelain wailing "Daddy. Daddy,"
That rally up into a rampant flood
Of shrews.

I overheard you say that breast feeding
Is the most maternal.
Daughter of the mud. Void verses,
Tripping over the most infernal,
Sweating, panting pigs left in your wake.
You left the tree, yet
You won because you were fertile.
And then you lose.

Where are they stowed? The
Other ninety-nine. I only saw one
Crawl on me. The first bee of
Spring scaling paint chips.
Why did you curse
Him with skin?
The product of your most frequented
Stance. Horizontal. Below.
You screech, and then you go.

Vile succubus. I do not care for your
Long, dark hair or your exponential
Chronicling of affairs ─
I wish you were dead.
Your nursing of locusts and slugs,
Your face that curls without concealing.
"She fled. She fled."
Genesis is on its head.

To be Eve stretched
Through the wormhole. Me, me.

How many species can you be ?

Araneae, Serpentes.

Fruit, Mute feeling
Cast at me past the foot of a bed.
What a look in those eyes. What
A provocation of dread.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH