Love, Child. Hate.

 As each day crumbles I have less to wake for.

 

When we stood upon the stand

The cello strings like blinking rain,

The boy �" his red car,

I take a shot, the girl’s redeye,

The tree leaves and the silence

All we came for.

 

I feel  forced to recollect

The crab who faltered sideways.

The water from the well

Blew my sandcastle away.

 

I could never sing the high-notes,

That’s why I married you,

But you hum like the timber of the forest.

 

Your eyelids flutter

Like litter in the wind.

 

When we walk you don’t mean anything,

When we breathe you’re like the moon;

You reflect the air I cast upon your face.

 

You are my god, the pan,

A pebbles angel,

A flinching saint.

 

As we walk we make a path through the roses,

Thorns in thighs,

Our dripping blood to feed the devils wife.

 

We paint the white with purity

We ache the pain with chastity,

Your breast beneath my hand a silent cry.

 

We walk to the track,

We stop,

We don’t look back,

You’re at the front, I’m waiting round the side.

 

The church-bells sing in thunder,

The congregation flee;

The fickle and the lame,

The poor and the priest.

 

We paddle in the fountain,

Hair high below the swamp,

You mistake me for an apple

But I'm the tree.

 

We dry ourselves in December heat.

 

I take the train to a chapel,

You wait upon the cobblestone,

A distant path,

A briar patch,

A porno on the street.

 

Our child rips the pages

Recorded on his Dictaphone,

He paints the pictures on the walls

With the blood and cum we shed.

He photos them and naked boys,

He flushes fish down toilets,

Releasing them to sewers.

Releasing them to waterfalls.

 

I keep your picture in my hand,

Your face worn away

So I forget the way you used to look at me.

 

Pen to paper,

Sheet to pen,

I ink my sign upon the line,

The boy is yours,

His red car mine,

You’re redeye the only thing we share.

 

Our own concocted memories delete photos,

Calling them a lie.

 

Burning wax reminds me of the way you used to cry

As I struck you

Like a match,

I struck to make a flame.

 

Warm October evenings always kill me.

 

You sit upon the pony

Melting pictures in your flesh,

The scent calls the vultures,

They peck away your eyes.

 

Your body rots the stench of grandma’s perfume.

 

Now all I do is sleep.

Now all I do is wait.

 

Sat waiting for the swan who never came.

Reviews

[Luther]

i feel different every second of the day
it is only in the evenings that i get a true chance to express this
late night/early morning
in these cold wintery nights
this is how i feel
if i wrote now it'd be saying something knew. and again if i write in an hour.
thank you greatly.
xxx

[Kate]

i like the direction you're going in now.
i think its good, its darker and rawer and there's a sense of bitterness and nostalgia which i think is nice.
i also think that maybe you dont let on your thoughts, if this is what goes through your mind. it seems strange that you could write something with such emotion, cos you've never let on that you've ever felt it.
y'know?
i like it.