The Sorely-Spent Suicide

The Sorely-Spent Suicide

A Poem by Amorette Duvannes

This is for the man of whom my letters are all for -- and why an Art exam destroyed me.

Don't let me think of you, darling dear--
The quick elastic snap of my impressionability
Will break wind the minute your rags and eyes
Look into me like a bank, of superior rank--
My mouthless words come whimpering from me as if
An electroshock motel for the being afraid;
A sort of broken-beaked hummingbird
With a chord strung out by the Wind's harsh, bronzed-knuckled fingers.
For the sweated wind, tied and abridged by the forthright stare
That breaks the static line of my motion
Pulls the lips away from me and all I love,
Don't let me sit too long, stirring in my own awake light
Brewing in the silence like a puddle gazing awe-struck
By the thunderous moon -- who is not so great, who steals,
Who thieves, the morning light of the daring dear.
Do not let me be, for you, or for the candescence you provide,
A bucket of longing in your sullen drip-drip-drip.
A sweater raged for the burning amber fuel,
You call to me, leant against the cool, white paste
A casual leniency, but it is not that I know you dare
Until you follow me through a labyrinth of my own making
Like the dream you stalked me in just weeks before,
A hungry murderer trotting through the dead moss
To get to me, I reach for you in the same right, 
Dead as night -- no, I don't: I have no right.
I wish, crave, pine for you; a call to you,
The desert blue, the golden calm of my sweet labour
Dwindling, spindling -- specky little wrist, 
Drawing the words out of glue for you, killing the line of ants
To take over God from you. And I have been left for too long,
Over-heated, or left to dry, and now razor-pimpled,
Like a goose in poverty -- they let me think of you,
They let me spike my drinks with you, of you, and through you--
The deed, they say, has ripened past plucking
And I, in my last right, scratch the last candle-wick,
Dripping molten Godly gas - the bitter stake you,
Twist it into myself, the last one burning in a field of the night.

© 2014 Amorette Duvannes

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Added on March 7, 2014
Last Updated on March 7, 2014
Tags: poetry, poem, poems, war, peace, love, philosophy, adolescence, socialism, ideology, religion


Amorette Duvannes
Amorette Duvannes

Oh, aren't I silly - I'm just so silly. more..