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,
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
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,
If their smiles
I am the meal,
And their chattering teeth
The clinking cutlery
Gnawing desperately for
Validation to remain
Relevant on a soupy
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
Mine; Theirs; Thine
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
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.