"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

When Her Heart is Sober

Lying on a bed

Of soiled lace panties

The heart is char-blackened,

The veins twisted, entwined like

A snarl of electrical cord.

Her ten-sided, double-stick soul

Has taken beatings

That would bruise

A brute of a man that yet trudges on.

Sometimes I am calmer

When I smell my own smells—

My skin, my hair, the dirt under my

Fingernails,

The unkempt mane ever tossed to the side,

I love to hide behind it. I love to hide in the dark.

Her ink-splotched smile

Is hollowed out.

Her wide pond-eyes,

Bleeding, never shut…

I love to hide in the dark.

Hibernate like a bear,

Curled up in my bed,

And catch my constantly out-of breath,

And still my skipping heartbeats.

No comments:

Post a Comment