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April 19, 2010, at 3:00 pm — Arts and Culture | Poetry | Writing / / /

Poetry: “Human Torture Device” by Joanna Lord


Human Torture Device

Sick demon,
You try to stick me,
With ideas about,
How that man over there,
Will dare to try and make me tremble,

And though he pretends,
And though he glances over,
And though he creeps,
And although he speaks,

Words of complete foolishness to me,
Though his eyes beg for one drunken night,

After a bar,
And before a bar fight,
In the parking lot,
He wants to get hot and heavy,
In the backseat,

And feel the beat of his knees knocking,
With each lift of my hips,
Lips and teeth and eyes that glaze,

And in his gaze, he does not quite see me,

If he did, he never would have . . .

Did what he did,
And if I had seen myself,
I never would have allowed him to,

But you, sick demon,

Tell me he will and he will and he might and he will,
When he wants, how he thinks, he will taunt, he will,
Flaunt the red of your West Coast Jersey shirt for you,

Methinks I see trouble in his eyes,
I refuse to meet his gaze,
Because I am afraid,
Of how you will tell him to think,

Watch out now,
These are troubled times,
The end of days has you in the palm of her hand,
And the sand in the hourglass has you thinking too much,

Oh rest, and find your crutch and death bed,
Your human torture device,
Your inhaler and one last vice,

Before the crest of the wave,
Falls thrice upon you,
And swallows you down, down, down,
To the fountain of the seat of the deep.

– Joanna Lord


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