Anthony
Desmond is a twenty year old Detroit born writer now residing in Center
Line,
Michigan.
Raised and homeschooled by his single mother, he first discovered a
gift for writing at the age of sixteen. He firmly believes his talent
is God given and he is but a vessel for a higher power who shares this
selfsame passion for the written word.
Desmond describes his work as "eccentric, abstract.” He is intrigued by
pain & sadness, and he explores these emotions across a wide
array
of subject areas; politics, death, religion, the struggles of everyday
life. His bold statement pieces are often dark, granular observations
of the world he inhabits.
Anthony believes in testing the limits of the
permissible. His poetry is honest, unadulterated and breaches the norms
of the expected. His pen is sharp and he is loathe to hold back on a
thought or feeling, even at the risk of offending his reader. In his
view self-censorship is the surest way to weaken the power of his
craft.
His work has been praised by the likes of Erykah Badu and
Terry McMillan. His hero is the legendary figure of dark poetry, Frank
Stanford.
Anthony
Desmond's poetry can be found in online magazines and his own blog Glassstaircases.
He Twitters at @iamEPanthony
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GAINSAY
This
old apartment quarantined and abandoned
Housing bloody mirrors and spotless walls
For a decent distraction
They say a wounded spirit never leaves its home
I must turn myth to legend in a bed of flesh and bone
As I walk alone dragging a loved one through dirt
I, a gravedigger, let his demons spread like cancer
Rotting fumes with every raindrop
The scent of lust at its coldest
I shall sacrifice purity for endless orgasm
And love what so many can't bear to accept
The precious gem of vanity
Slit my throat in the name of validation if master asked
A pouring of blood beautifully
Displayed in a riedel wine glass
Each sip dribbling down the side of your mouth
And into the pocket of your handsome face
My instincts are cannibal as I witness
A slow, rotting, fine paste
I found pleasure in the cum filled asshole
Of a malignent asshole
It should be filled with maggots
I should be filled with guilt
Not gazing at my master like he wasn't
A fucking human being
More like a victim of distress
Ripped from head to base like torture to a rapist
Master held me close
Leaving his mark like a cicatrix
Stark naked and soft
His veins pulsate as if their yearning
For crack cocaine
He's addicted, as I,
An eternal sleeper on a cot of decomposed forgiveness
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