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
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

No comments:

Post a Comment