Dilation

A Poem by Amorette Duvannes

i really didn't have enough motive to write about myself again -- so today, have a nice little fatal wound kind of poem!

War:

Turbulence, be my bondage!

Bandage me up, stitch me away from myself,

I have seen such things, that it takes me a while

To become myself in part with it.

Man:

Oh drear! I have been inside you,

Caving in like a vessel too cold

I have piqued my interest in your fate

Clock hands have broken before I have.

War:

I see you wear fool carved upon your seal,

And endlessly wearing the seal, I profess, I owe you one Death,

And one truth, and one life.

Even I

Wanted peace. Even I

Wanted my wounded home. Even I

Called my sake for granted, Love-

Man:

I tear a ligament in your name. I cry,

Cry, and still, you broke our seamless skies,

What is there left for you? Our little

Carcasses dragged across your empty barren bonds -

War:

Oh Love! For all of Love, in it,

Out it, God forbid! I have courted Peace

For centuries, and she turns, my coy mistress,

To the soil.

All I have craved, with teeth, is

Her. Do you think I wanted ten thousand bloody

Men at a time, weeping for pathos and

Blooming pansies for their loss as I heed my own?

Man:

You sick, you shallow, you legless shell

I cannot condone love in that predicament,

Broken sanctity, O, now you have thrown that to

The waste-land too, how much more

Death will you permit in your state,

Backless flea, unwounded in your tear--

My wife was thirteen when she had been wrought by

Your wreck, little red neck!

War:

My maid shall not vindicate me, though indifferent am I

To you, little player, rot flesh, crushed limbs,

I hang my head for your axe,

I know I am a stump for your reasoning.

Man:

Childless! Loveless! Forlorn!

Mourn those you left in the open wind,

Impediments impair your, deaf, Death,

Black bird, bucked wing, broken beak.

War:

That is right, O is it a chord

To depict you open?

That I f**k you hollow, left you legless

Left you strung tight on a high vibration of frequency?

Man:

Cut me open, your desirous nebula

Clings to me, weakens who I am, I am just

Another, I know that -- I am no challenger,

No pretence -- let me tell you one profound thing:

War:

Tarry on poor soldier, and I will not

Prohibit you from one direct truth given to the Dead

Upon opening time, the 25th day of the 12th

Month in the Waste-land's eyes.

Man:

When you gassed the squandering millions,

When you soaked your velvet arm-rest

In your signification, your lover

Beat her wings for our recluse

Her femininity goaded away from whom?

And showed no mercy. When you

Squander fervour from yourself, she tarried on,

Her delicate cheek faced to us, razor-blades fenced aghast of you.

War:

Pretty thing. Pretty man.

I am exhibited the proclamation by every

Cowardly courage that passes through my linen-

If I may now?

The world will not end with me, or your part in me.

The world will not end for courage or action,

The world will not end for fortitude, and

Nothing for your damned sensation sentiments.

In the end, we are both nothing to it.

In the end, Time has no place,

Nothing meant, or deserved, or placed-

In the end, we ghost, spineless,

Wordless. In the end, there is not

A word to execute it. And we fathom,

Unfathomably, our place in nothing --

Simple man. I am spiteful, but nothing compares--

The world will end blank.

The world will end stained.

The world will end fearful.

The world will end will end without assurance.

© 2013 Amorette Duvannes

Author's Note

as i have said before, i do not want scholar-ly criticism or the improvement points of a scholar; rather, i would like, human to human, to know this has been raw to you, fucked you, offered marriage to you. even if you hated it, even if it shook you, made you tremor -- please give me anything that makes this worth it.