A Preview of 'Liquid Metropolis' by Petra Whiteley

                                            

Chapter I/ PartX
 
This is
   a place of my rotten blood.
       A rest for my glass skull stitched between olive shadows
           and dancing wings of owls turning children's dreams in
              the Russian wheels of their eyes
                           in shrieking midnights...universe of silences.
What is left here?
            The dainty mice fingers in patters of spasmodic ecstasies,
                    scratching the flesh to black veins, the curvy roads of my death.
                        All the sea softened red stones on my tongue
                                                                          were iridescent prophesies,
                                   rolling noise gurgling silhouettes of promise - eating from the palm
  of syllables  unspoken in a metallic shivering of a single word. Swallowing me
now
  nail by nail. Spitting my life back into a dark arch under his jaw. Chews on my mind.
          I am the void, the pain and the whiskey lie, a sucked bone, a flute, and as I,
you will
             (desc)end softly as a barren rattle sound.

 
Chapter 3 – The Silence Manual/Part 6. Disposal – Sapiens be(fallen) 

The dialogue of hardened hands
is spoken through the cracks in skin,
the body is the night of glass with horizons sharpening.
The dialogue of darkened eyes
is stillness of afternoons, the heavy sound of sun,
hanging from dried mouth - the nails of mind, weighing.
Time’s weighing down the drumming
heart’s monologue and its own answers of blood
in the fast, tight fist of light and its prolonged suffocating absence.

The rhythm between silence and sound
is the breath’s weakness through the loyalty of lungs, miracles
of twins blossoming electricity of pain and endorphin religion
rushes.
The monologue of aging, the monologue of death,
the architectural bends in anatomy of the maps, the world,
unanswered and reactionary, the communion of perpetual suicide.
It’s so hard to understand the vacuum of colours, the void of flesh,
the charcoal post-mortem of mannequins sipping teas outside in the
storm
only punctuated by the fastened directions of wind.

Chapter 4/Frame II

Locus Amoenus (Goodbye To Eden)

I’ve laid in this dark green garden, this anaemic coffin
with intricate leaf patterns and cat-shit-stinking soil,
order of scars circling the longest days under thin branches
and devouring each of their ruby veins.
Suffocating clouds above my neck with their threats
were conceived in a swollen mass of judgements,
raining old blood
and egg bombs of noiseless screams, shading
darknesses behind the edge brutalities of drops, rushing
over and through my skin.
They say God’s voice is a beautiful song,
but His voice is Death, His eyes a singeing pain,
His endless fingers of words claw suicide
into the everyday smell of my flesh and its throbbing
is the only life left. His moods of salvation a tool of hell.

There become, the I
a ship and as such descend into the distances
of the seas greying inside
always pulling into downward shores, strewn
with bones like stars pulsing white on the sand.
Silent
and indifferent.


'Liquid Metropolis' can be purchased from Erbacce Press, here