A poem inspired by a disturbering dream I had, which stuck out in my mind for being so unlike any dream I had before.

You Raped My Mind

It haunts me still
the violence of the dream
so unreal, and yet so
inescapable.

It daunts me to recall
the hard metallic taste
that I cannot alleviate
from my mind.

It was something
raw and impure
passionless
and yet there was
an unavoidable need
for nothing more than
the friction of two bodies.

I was repulsed
yet convicted
covered in dirty
shame and the memory
of teeth marks upon
flesh a strange
surreal bareness.

It was not attraction
but grotesque
and I woke feeling
near shattered
wishing I could
wash my mind away.

The thought
of it ransacks
my senses,
this ugly undisguised
lust the feeling of being
possessed
throwing myself into it.

A thing devoid of pleasure
but boiled down
to a simple wanting
a need to be ripped
apart.

Like magnetic fields
pulled together
pushed apart
the irresistible
rejected
rebel soul
you were
no matter
your wretchedness
my inner resistance.

It was not about us
it was undisclosed
undisguised
so I could see only
the hideousness inside
and give into your
brutality.

I never learned to ask,
"How are things in your grandmother's village?"
in any foreign tongue.

I can say,
"Show me your hands, or I will kill you."
in several languages.

But, somehow, it is not the same.

For Revolte :D

At dead of night, beneath his cloak,
Eyes hidden by his hat,
An anarchist intent on crime
Was stared at by a cat.
It perched atop a dustbin lid
And calmly stroked its whiskers
And then addressed the anarchist
In confidential whispers.

It asked him what his mission was
It asked him who must die
It asked him why he dallied thus
In short it asked him why.
But the anarchist, eyes glinting
Beneath his hat’s wide brim,
Behind his shroud of darkling cloth
Just clenched his teeth and grinned.

Conversing with a cat, he thought,
Would mean he was insane,
And knowing that he wasn’t mad
Refused to play the game.
But the cat, who new his business,
Just sat and calmly listened
For hoof beats on the cobbled street
That in the moonlight glistened.

Inside his stately carriage
The Crown-Prince sat and preened
And polished nails so manicured
They positively gleamed,
While outside in the dewy night
His coachman whipped his team,
Four stallions, black as midnight,
With their breath a misty steam.

The clatter of approaching hooves
Alerted then our pair,
The one equipped with dynamite,
The other who just stared.
Fumbling with the folds of cloth
The anarchist prepared,
He lit the fuse and flung his bomb
Too hyped for feeling scared.

Then the cat, who knew his business,
Dropped down behind his bin,
And stopped his ears with cotton wool
To shield them from the din.
Exploding like the wrath of God
With sheets of flame let fly
The Prince’s coach (and bits of Prince)
At last came down nearby.

The anarchist, who screamed his joy,
Then turned and ran away
The cat though just unstopped his ears
And mourned this awful day.
He knew what this night’s work would bring:
By war the world left flat:
And all because an anarchist
wouldn’t listen to a cat.