The Assent

Yesterday, methodically, I opened up
a black trash bag
and emptied my life into the void of it
a grin thickening my lips.
I was as drunk on this carthasis
as a clown on laughs.

I won't powder my face, I won't
colour my mouth.
I won't shave my pussy, I won't
cut my hair.
I won't wear clothes.

I wear rope now. It is my colour.
It is my entire attire

and who needs makeup
when you hold my face?

Blue House - by an anonymous friend

-THE BLUE HOUSE-


Little blue house

On a green hill

Wrapped in grey clouds

That refuse to rain

In the valley below

Where the lake bed

Lies desiccated, sucked dry

By a magnetic force

On the flipside of the world

The lake is full

Little blue house

Anchor me against

This magnetic pull

Withdrawal

The trolleys move as thunder;
dirty rubber on the glaze
makes lines of ants.

A white slip falls
like a slapped child;
tut, tut, pick it up.

Usssshhhhh.
A curtain hisses into life.
I am surrounded.

I shall die inside my cupped hands.
No-one need know;
I will prop my muscles carefully
with sticks of smiles.

Clepsydra

I am planting weeds
instead of flowers
to tip the balance on
each tiring hour you seeded,
cultivating me.

My eyes are raw
my fists are cut through
and snails commune like rubies
in my mouth
as I govern this windy garden
of rancour and bile.

The swinging lamp is smashed
upon the littered path.
I edge my elbows past
the hedge you grew.
I plaster up the holes
where once you drew
plasma from my smacked vein.

The hounds are in, the time has flown,
the cats are calmly drinking you.
I am in the night, my shoulders up
my legs askew.

I plant nettle.
I turn my spade.
I screw the screw.

The Echo

Remember this sequence, remember
this pattern.
Crush - conversation.
Running, flashing,
bird-of-you alighting
in the light of the iris.
We come to speak,
leave to heaving
- mouths agog.

Blushing.
Glowing.
Hushing.

Aye. Aye. We connect at knee and hip.
Stars fall as heavy apricots from
the torn string parcel of the sky.
All upon us, weighted fruit and
I can barely swallow this.
Resin's running through us,
the mat of river reed's our bed.
The stones are straining patterns
on my breasts and thighs.

When you're weeping, own this
memory.
Roll it over, under your thick
lost tongue.
For when I'm gone
you'll be alone, so I insist
you think of sticky palms on backs
(not pallid lands of washed flesh
or funeral masks).
Think of murmuring laughing,
of the cold heft of rain
thudding the window
of our skulls.
Stars scarring our skin.

Rescue

If you descend,
I will drag you up by the knots of your hair.
I will tear, from your scalp, the clods of your grave
until dirt stains my skin like parchment ink.
I will draw the heaviness from your lolling neck
until I stiffen enough to lift you.
Asp-like, I will wreath myself around the auditors of the tombs,
blind them with kisses
and rush from the seam of their jail with you
bundled around me;

never looking back.
Not glancing, not thinking
of ever looking back.

Testing, testing...

Oh Mr Thumper, run!
The men with traps come for you
their backs afire with love for you
for what pricked eyes and bunny screams
can lead them to.

In death, Mr Thumper, death!
You keep in store a gruesome treat
for the lab-child in his collared coat
(his coat of many contradictions):
a monster grips his dreams.