The Conscious Construction Of The Self (By Spiders) - 01/10/16

originally posted @sunday on newhive

At night the ocean holds me.

I am wakeful, but missing my face.

My body, my neighbour,

is adrift and spiders surround her.

Spiders that swim and construct;

in their spidery way;

a Self.

I want to fill a pretty diary with poetry.

I fill it with lists to describe the Self.

I cry because the diary is ugly -

the pages cut with the plague of me,

at once, a baby under earth and bed covers,

and a flower of frayed wires,

sparking,

spitting, "I love you, I love you not".

Won't you pick a petal?

Sweet thing.

My poison will not touch your tongue, but still

I'll set you smoking at the window nightly,

woken by my wretched shaking.

This year belongs to sickness.

See it cough and splutter,

blood in a cupped hand.

What isn't real cannot be ours -

recount the criteria composed on my sofa,

the breath of New Year's Day already in our lungs.

I'll regress to live a childhood I can love

and remember.

Until such time,

no year, no life,

no memory is mine.