Poetry

By Robin Jansen

Breakfast with the Faeries

The faeries are having breakfast.

I do not want an invitation they say.

I peak through the coloured wood

Of pastel pinks, purple canopies

Of five glittered trees hiding 

The whole affair.

Twelve muscly males sit

In the tiny bubble

Closeted within my breast,

Sipping with a hanging hand

(Out my head punch is dished).

They told me to reject the invitation.

Gabbing loquaciously, he flaunts

In sequenced wings about

The drags of sinners. Slice

Eden's fruit-cake, an apple delight

Split in fifteen pieces, a treat I must not touch

An invite is die Duiwel, I say.

Whilst longing in the background

Seventeen flowers blossom

Scenting sweet cherry vapours—

Salivary daemons, faeries nocturn,

Dare you drive my hunger; Titillate my senses.

An inflamed heart says they are wrong.

The faeries are having breakfast,

Thirteen muscly males with tinted wings.

Gabbing loquaciously, I flourish

In the open canopy of graceful leaves,

No men here in a bubble enshrouding my aether.

I am home, we say.

They stand in a steam

Of the faeries' correction.

The Queen faerie holds a silver platter.

In chime-toned voices

He offers it nonchalantly,

"Wors?"

The Sirens Wail At The Onslaught Of A Billion Eyes

The sirens wail

At the onslaught

Of a billion eyes—

It is Hiroshima

In my head,

This ghastly war

I willingly enter

To entertain with

Stone-white shivers

In pearly laughs.

God, it is a furnace,

This room. It swells

With the pressure

Of the violence!

Each handshake a shock 

To my chittery chest;

Every hug a punch

To my gargling gut

That leaves me reeling

To a silent corner

Where l count dead faces

Who animate with 

The loudness of life.

This is death, 

I think.

If their smiles 

Were knives

I am the meal,

And their chattering teeth

The clinking cutlery

Gnawing desperately for

Validation to remain

Relevant on a soupy

Substance, insubstantial

And unfulfilled.

I, I, I am a living owl

Among a poltergeist of smiles; 

I am an internal screech

With a minimal cry.

I leave clinging to my

Carcass, bone-dry and 

Barely there in 

The confines of 

My unravelled

Mind.

Mine; Theirs; Thine

dear belief,

creator of my shattered being

who receives not the thirsty pleas

of a slaughtered sheep,

from inimmaculate conception

the black Mercury of a jaded life

has leaked through the cracks of your

damnation.

Was the Potter's hand

slung in misfortunate breakage

and the hand of ill-usage

the shaper of my luver;

or was I banished to

your incinerator from start

as a trinket in your music-box,

You watching toyfully as I unwind.

Former proves even the Maker

makes mistakes; after all you made me,

wedged between the sin of two executions,

one death a lifetime's sin,

the other a speedtrain to Hell.

There is no light here, but a grey spot,

since I forget I've already slit the

doors of heaven

when my red ticket to eternity lost

bought me Faith's banishment.

A pity i missed my train,

for the doorway cut through your heart

was too small for any salvation.

Oh pure faith of mine, theirs, thine,

you've left me no choice, but two paths

to your crime;

i accept not the craft of nine times nine

but your game is one in which no way I shine;

does that not make you Sinner's tool? if so

faith's Sin makes belief his fool.

 Persecute my body,

 stake my pain,

 My Life's Your Burial,

 life's happiness my gain.

About the Author

Robin Jansen is an aspiring, South African-born, LGBTQ writer, born in December 1989 at the cusp of the new decade and almost the turn of the social media driven century, who currently resides in Johannesburg. He has a keen interest in the human psyche and although his profession is in the finance sector, creative writing remains his passion.

Robin’s writing, especially poetry, involves subjects which tackle the psychological motivations of people, sexuality and the actions of general human society, exploring topics which may be considered taboo or outside the scope of societal norms. He has a couple works published under his pseudonym, Seth Stevens, and is an advocate for freedom of expression and breaking the chains of social injustice. You can find out more about his work at https://www.wattpad.com/user/Seth_Stevens on Instagram.