Thursday, 19 April 2012

Don't you go telling, second draft

little blue books    
tucked beneath the skin
will tell out the hurts    
(like nobody knew)
                                       they patterned us with




What I did.
What I did to you. 
What I did I did to you.


Another gift with the surprise poured out.            
 
forever, we clouding the air 
with gracious smiles


pretending to forgive and
working 
at our fine stitching


Should we ever shake free
(us skittery birds)            
hunger would show plainly


And the jittery senses
are like crooked flowers
blooming semen strings
willow thin and clingy


Let the lovely bruises be.

We are the map of uneven pressures
and mattered delight


Our arthritic tongues quiver close to words
because we cannot be bored




The sun is cruel to everyone
curing us as accidental meat
              stripping us of thumb prints
                       fixing the toothy grin




We'll throw the rope to the raggedy shore 
on the raggedy shore we'll sail no more
 
stripping to our shivering coordinates
before the energy of almost there 
a bleeding and corrosive light


Let all the blue books everywhere 
burn up to the fine silver ash
that waits for the green tips 
of our paysan fingers
to dip in


Now love, let’s you and I be friends
and shake our dirty hands

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