Prose from this series
Michelle Augello, writes creative fiction, erotica and is also an editor for Siren. For those of you that want to publish edgier work go have a look at what Siren does.
Her blog is here https://michelleaugellopage.wordpress.com/
Michelle has some works available and come article links.
I chose the poem below from her blog to share. I am slowly working on a series of erotic shorts around a circus and one is of a knife thrower, the poem reminded me of it. Part of my process writing is that as I start to connect with a story as the mood and ‘swell’ of it starts to come through, I collect things like a crow that relate to what that swell feels like. A collection of symbolic moods and visuals that wraps around the story idea and modd like a caterpillars chrysalis.
This is one of those shinny things my inner crow collected.
I love you like a woman
pinned to a carnival wheel
blindfolded, I spin
taut against splintered wood
my body is a temporal thing
skin, blood, bone
you throw knives
at the negative spaces
between my fingers, along
the line of neck and jaw
I hold my breath. I do not
speak. I don’t want to break
and risk a slip in direction
the sweat on your brow
is glistening in the hot sun.
“July” is one of the poems in My Mother’s Daughter, a collection of poems I wrote between 1998-2002 and published in 2012.
It’s the too long silences which give me away.
Inside the beasts jostle shoulder to shoulder to gaze through my eyes.
Inadvertently they scratch and claw at my ribs,
hold onto the arched bone as they lean forward.
I raise my glass, smile across the table,
They shake at my ribs
Howl as I tilt my head to focus on the exchanges around me.
Ignored they explode through my body in frustration.
I count. One, two, three and breath.
The tension in my chest eases and they disperse.
The truth is
I covert their secret presence,
Relish that few recognizance them in me.
The grass looks greener when they are there.
The wind feels softer on my face,
The water tastes sweeter.
But most of all I like it when I feel their kindred in others,
The woman opposite me in the subway
The man leaning against the counter at the bar
The smile on the strangers face as we walk towards each other
Invisible hands reaching out as we pass.
Connected by our secret passengers.
There is a pocket of love in the air above an open flower.
It reaches out with invisible fingers and draws us in.
The kiss is so soft, so tender it is experienced only as the heady scent of its breath.
© E Holland
Image © Dascha Friedlová
It doesn’t matter how wise your decisions are.
The heart wants what it wants.
It wants in ways we can spend a lifetime trying to work out.
It’s a beast with a gentle heart and a flower with razor teeth.
I used to think that at least it was mine.
But as time has passed, I realized I’d given it away.
I’m not sure what beats in its place.
But sometimes, as it stirs in the night while I’m half asleep,
I know it’s yours.
© Elsa Holland
Flowers eat don’t they?
I have seen their teeth…briefly.
That’s the sign of a carnivore, isn’t it?
I mean do herbivores have sharp teeth?
Flowers don’t eat just anything,
they are like the warriors way back when
who ate the heart of their kill.
We don’t want to think about it but it’s true,
flowers are the hounds of emotion.
They bay at the heart seducing it into submission,
waiting for that exact moment
when they will consume their quarry and the conqueror can come in.
Vanquished we lie open, hungry for the conquest,
offering ourselves to be consumed as petals cover our breasts in ownership.
© Elsa Holland