Four Poems
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by Madeleine Marsters
sleepwalker stuck between life and a dream, 66 days of nothing, personalised purgatory a whisp, a wraith of summer calls - but fresh fruit has rotted and the sharp wind carries distant cries as carefully moulded masks begin to crack in the cold, a shower of porcelain shards the sky seeps blood and i'm not sure i have a heart anymore periwinkle blue, my thoughts freeze before they begin and bluetits drop mid flight i am nothing i am nothing i am nothing A Confidante's Curse I want to forget what you told me, for the blood on your hands to not cast a shadow on mine, to dissolve the weight of your words, to melt away the wrought iron chain you hung around my neck, to leave my heart feather light and free, but you carved your words deep into the centre of my soul, initials into the trunk of a weeping willow. No tears can soothe the irreparable, and no tongue can lick a wound clean, and now wordless whispers echo in the corridors of my mind, a constant cacophony, a grotesque melody, white fire, blistering heat; the Devil must have told you, ‘A sin shared is a sin halved’. Do-It-Yourself Lobotomy Sometimes I'd like to strain my brain the way you might strain chamomile tea, separate the saneness from the madness, my voice from all the others', and leave a golden pool of goodness beneath the sharp fragmented leaves. But if that doesn't work, I think I'll just start cutting. Grip the scalpel in a tight fist, a shining silver promise of freedom in a cold piece of metal, and I'll cut away the rabid pieces, cut away the red-black clots, hack away the tumours and the rot and the decay, until only plain, pure pink remains. Maybe then the noise would stop. Bless Me Father for I Have Sinned Bind my hands with a rosary, I've started sinning again. Fevered blasphemy has left my mouth blistered and raw, and when you stick your fingers down my throat, all I can taste is the sharp tang of metal. I haven't confessed since February and now the sticky heat of late summer tempts me with fervid pleasures, of delicious perversities that make my body writhe and my tongue swell; unholy thoughts breed unholy appetites. The Devil licks at my skin, hot as flames, like the promise of Hell's wrath after Death, and now I think it's too late to repent, too late to bruise my knees on those cold stone tiles begging God for forgiveness, I fear I am no longer His. Madeleine Marsters is a poet from Hull and East Riding of Yorkshire. SHARE - Issue: 1.8 / April 2026 |