harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i don't know of a love that is loveless, my love. rain is scolding my shoulders for playing the angel with blades, and i know i have earnt it. i have a metallic mouth for mourning what you were once when we were only seventeen quite alike and yet unlike you and me.
and pass me your ultraviolent hand; the one you brandished with parmaviolets in it that were going putrid; even the hue -- i was blue, bluest but not her -- not the soft doe i do concur. there was something in her eyes -- not particles of i (though maybe there was a fraction in disaffection) in lamplight: my new wing is growing back crooked. it hurts, it hurts.
love ditched me first on a grass bank: smeared in a tossed condom wrapper, i guess that's what you are now forget me not and plastic in my palm; how often did i hold hell above my head for when i was avoiding my gaze not to see my body washed nakedly -- how often was your head on my shoulder and my legs splayed sadly when i watched you kneeling on the ground -- your belt buckle, i felt, all over, again, you fumbling, second, forgetting in an instant, all that it was and it hurts it hurts -- quite alike, the cuts you felt, why would you hurt me like this, honey, did you break the wrapper with your teeth -- my pet you are not who you think you are, a toothmark in my hand, third the mandala that's driven me mad had on that occasion seen you smother me in absent pillow talk -- it hurts it hurts; i can't unsee it at all; ; ;
(22nd December 2018)
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