GRAHAM
There was a birth and a death. And a million more. And none were important. And a million more. Pearl lips. Lots. And white legs peal. Blue fingers and hands and arms. Pink cheeks. Everybody looks for trust eyes. Everybody red flushes.
Graham, trapped in lace. Was a birth. White lace, white birth. Christened in gold and drowning in leather. Graham, in the sex club, drowning in leather. And coated in lace with a smile on his face, Graham, deaf Graham, is drowning in leather. Tight smile, yellow teeth, specked tongue.
And Graham writes, “Je te veux. Je te veux. Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je ne peux rien faire. Tu est tout que je veux, l’amour est ma mortuaire. Je te veux. Je te veux. Tu est tout que je dois. J’ai envie de tomber amoureux si tu te fanera”.
To pink no-one. And yellow teeth. And lace on the neckline. He wants you, he wants you. Love is his funeral. He wants you, he wants you. He will want to fall in love if you fade. So fade. Everything is too too close. And in. And in.
Drowning in leather. A cardboard plate on the viscid floor. Panic eyes. Graham always with panic eyes. Away from all love. Lace wrists. Lace neck. Material for men. Black rip. Pink shreds.
Graham never thought about his parents. They polished his glass certificates. They dusted his dusty shelves. They gave his books to charity, and they waited for a call.
And lightning sits on the cardboard. It calms. White legs peal onto Graham’s back. Viscous men with seething bodies peal onto Graham’s back. Eating lightning. Tasting lightning. And thinking about falling in love.
Graham will be a thousand paper statues. When he dies, he will be made into a thousand blank paper statues. And he will be folded onto a plinth in the middle of a green path for a thousand days. He will eat lightning and taste floods, and be white reborn.
"Through the hosiery to the armory. To the nothing. How do you feel when you can't feel nothing?"
A Daughter. Or Something
A Daughter. Or Something
Moon haze stains the window. My eyes are too heavy for the cotton sheets. They are nothing, here. They are no-one’s and they are nothing.
Heels arch. Toes curl. Lips like a fist and take it. Take it.
And again, back pressed to the grey duvet. Silence and zips. And breathing through my nose. Silence and turning the light back on. Silence and then door lock.
I’m wearing a nightgown. Ribbon around my waist. I don’t need the money when I’ve got ribbon. Ribbon for the world. And my hair can be ribboned and I can find a tree and I can climb the tree and I can see a field from the branch-
Feet flat on the duvet. Grease hair, white shoulder. Something happens.
I don’t know if that’s the moon or just pollution. I hear there’s too much pollution.
My fingers are fingers, and I touch the glass lightbulb. The searing lightbulb. I touch it with my fingernail and scour nothing. Feet flat on the duvet. Ribbon around my waist. Lips like a claw and I touch it. Touch it.
I door click, I light off, I breathe through my nose. Zips and silence. And I breathe through my nose. And again, back pressed to the grey.
And I want to peel the moon haze and press it to my face. All around my face, so I see nothing but the mist and the impression of a star in the glass of my eye. And I have eyes, and I can swallow, choke, I can choke the dark and. And something happens.
A lightning flash. Or a choke, and die.
Silence and zips. And door click. And grey, again. My eyelids are too thin for the yellow ceiling. They are no-one’s and they are nothing.
Duvet feet. Upright and I caress the glass of the lightbulb. There is a man, down on the street. I know I can see a man. My fingers creep to the metal at the top of the cold glass. And my claw is like a fist. And my fist is like a fist. And my feet are fists. The ceiling is a fist and it punches, and I throw the lightbulb smash, and I dance, fuck it, fuck it, I dance with my fists and I hope for the moon and there is brown, everywhere.
Soaking the blood.
Door click. Silence and zips. It will be morning, soon.
Bellybutton
i want to pluck out my belly button
stretch it
find it
i want to pluck out my belly button
a rope, a bloody rope
not umbilical
a dancing
bloody ship rope
not dancing unless
i twist
my belly button
in circles
almost a nail, every twist
hardens
the rope
to metal
screwed to messy sheets
watching
the show
my show
or
just a scab
or just a scab
that peels
and leaves
no imprint
i want to pluck out my belly button
Maddy
Madeline McCann was lying
as a pile of crumpled flannel
under the haze of the drizzle
of the morning’s curtain smog.
I did nothing.
The fabric folded around her
face, pleating blonder hair
around the heavy hand resting
on her concave cheek.
I did nothing.
She lay like a statue. A toppled
-don’t say fallen, she was never
fallen- statue. Don’t, there was
no sediment. There was no dust.
I felt nothing.
Foil and Sweets
just you. so I decided to carry the shopping bags all the way to the curb, drop and leave.
the sky was grey, white, and grey and white.
i never see the drivers, the cars just move on and on
on their own accord,
at four in the morning, even, from the sugar window
I see them move on and on
and I think that they must be going to hospitals because
I ate all of your sweets
and slept in their wrappers.
it was cold, that night.
I was cold.
and I couldn’t sleep, so
I rolled and wore the colour
so it was foil and
you couldn’t smell the sweets,
just my sweat
and semen
when I gave you back your wrappers.
Pinocchio
pinocchio, apple core in hand. walking with honest john. walking to stromboli. i am, i am, i am.
smoking cyanide.
birthing bleach.
cumming bleach.
smothering bleach.
smoking bleach.
bleaching cyanide.
disney shouted
BLEACH BLINDS
so john throws the apple core to the floor. so i skip. so i stumble. so i bleach, i bleach, i bleach.
Naturally
1.
The tree startles
the clouds.
We shiver praise.
One time lovers
sheltering from the rain.
We shock no-one.
The tree gorges
on the birds.
2.
My brother fled over the river.
I saw his shadow wain soft
Through the mottled glaze of my window.
Patches of Iron heather
strangled my attention away
from his garroted gait.
Only tree. My brother fled.
The stench of age hung
strange on its matted branches.
3.
The river and the bark
mould love on the bank.
We cull romance.
My brother fled, and I followed.
The tree stretched my
blue dungarees.
The branch twists me.
Still. The branch twists.
Oh, and I fled
over the river, to
the hovering rope swing.
To the spindled branch,
swinging soft on the pink
rope. It rests, taut, around
my view of the stars.
4.
The clouds fled, and I followed.
I cannot taste the moon.
No comments:
Post a Comment