my lover crushed the budding fruit in me
which ran from out my legs like currant wine –
that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy
sat red upon her tongue as muscadine.
her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh
to take from me her pound, then two, then five;
to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh
my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe
and clutch me like a candle through the night.
at morning light she pinches out the wick:
she spends me, bends me down as acolyte
to altars where her ash has settled thick
in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,
where all my lover’s love rends me apart.
The world bent towards the end I would have written
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the
The light, decanted by the leaves - 'tis diffused,
A scattering barely seen from the ground;
Perhaps the greed of a few, who were crowned
By the light are blessed; the rest refused
This need... Could be a thought - or a ruse:
The leaves that are in the shadows still live;
They manage themselves, the Sun need not give
Any importance for their needs: disuse
Has made them adapt to their surroundings.
Just as a child who accepts the darkness,
The leaves survive. And for this, adapting
To what we think as Fate wrought in sadness,
They are like their roof above: their callings
Understood; more than us, who see far less.
Her feet are wearing holes in the carpet
While she paces 'round and 'round with a scowl
Apparently her book gives her a fit
And no one dares to talk to her at all
Her fists are clenched and waving through the air
Making gestures no one can understand
She has been pacing several hours there
Immersed in some issue that is at hand
Her eyes stare off into some unseen world
As if she is squinting at a wet page
The ink has run and everything is blurred
Her eyes too tired to read it in her rage
But then! some idea strikes her at last
I never knew that she could run so fast.
Mosquito, you have played your final game
If it was you, directly in my ear
an hour before the midnight bell, for shame
I'll have you know, if you should reappear:
for you I'll find my doll-house guillotine
A mini-vampire hunter track you down
to stick your dripping noggin, most obscene
upon the palisade of doll-house town
There's no rest for the wicked, sucker, see
my bloodhound-dogged zeal is no pretence
No Venus flytrap that one needs to be?
Or at your earliest convenience
go find a fire to die in, flying louse
(preferably outside the house)