Delicate Feral – Bambi-Rose Woodward

Tag: Poetry

  • Medusa Eyes

    Artificial niceties have never been my mask,

    Dousing fuel on the fire, hear it speak for me.

    There’s integrity in the flame of a forbidden task

    Loyalty rises from ashes of pitiful destiny

    Once warmth from your lips, a whisper turns cold

    Your joy in my prosecution remains untold

    Cursed with Medusa eyes and a habit of exile,

    As I called for mercy, I caught you smile

    When I looked to you, your smurk turned to stone,

    I’m sorry, sweet girl, that you were left alone.

    Turning to fire as she crumbles away,

    Still dancing in the smoke of yesterday.

    My heart’s erratic, my ribs are glass,

    An acidic tongue, my mind like a riot,

    Bleeding spells from the horrors of my past

    Your fraudulent care worn to keep me quiet

    I sit amongst the rubble of those I saw before

    Smashing the poor souls of my array

    Asking to be held, but my stare pleads for more

    Bringing myself to dance alone, blooming from our decay

    Cursed with Medusa eyes and a habit of exile,

    As I called for mercy, I caught you smile

    When I looked to you, your smurk turned to stone,

    I’m sorry, sweet girl, that you were left alone.

    Turning to fire as she crumbles away,

    Still dancing in the smoke of yesterday.

  • Mercy & Her Sword

    Bambi Valentine performing BambiVora – Wonderful World, a political satire bubble act at Alias Cabaret. Photos by a Martian.

    My heart aches in the face of hatred.
    There is a time for rage – a necessity for violence.
    But even when I, too, raise discord, I will not praise the sword.

    I may speak with acidity, perhaps callous humour,
    yet my heart will not turn to stone.

    I will not lose my humanity.
    I will not let their hatred defeat me.
    My life, my love, my place in this world
    means more than some maggot with a mic.

    I do not fraternise with false niceties,
    but I will not lose my heart.

    I will not become the picture
    they so viciously try to paint.
    If I raise the sword, it is with mercy
    and I pray the same is granted upon me.

    The patterns of time scream torturous warning.
    I brace, armed with reason,
    And fire in my blood.

    This time is wicked, and hatred can be vile…
    yet song, and wonder, and a child’s laugh
    will not allow me
    to reciprocate such cruelty.