Poetic Aspirations Two.

Bathsheba’s Bath.

Are we building a temple, you and I?

As we lie like broken lambs,

Or cracked pieces of the host, floating,

At the edges of the chalice:

soggy with wine.

 

The electric light casts an unpleasant sheen

On the bathwater, illuminating the gritty evidence:

small brown curls,

And dust on the rim. We pull

The shower curtain across,

Making shadows to hide in,

So if I close my eyes I might believe

We were in other people’s lives.

 

The tangle of my hair seeps around you,

The pillowy flesh of your crotch drifting

Near my ears. The water is too hot

And my legs extend above the tap,

As if hung on a hook,

the bubbles drying out to white residue

like spiderwebs.

 

All sensitivity slowly recedes.

The burning toes cool as the fleeing blood

Drains away, and my fingers, like a statues,

drip water from their tips.

There is a moment when the bulbous tug

Of the teardrop quivers against inevitability,

And I can see world through its unique

Looking-glass; the teal of the curtain, the yellowing

Flesh.

 

The taps are reflected in them,

Silver and burning against me

whilst we lie,

Naked, and unafraid before

the blanch of steam and raw element.

Your skin seems to float around me like

Fat on oil, loose and lifeless.

In this stewed pot of hair and bones,

I wonder where you are,

What part of you I might keep,

Or find, if I boiled us away

to stock.

 

The water cools but I have

Lost the feeling

in my feet, and cannot                

get out.

 

 

 

11pm.

Electric lights hum

in a gold frame around everything else,

vibrating very fast, at a high pitch.

The sound of something always moving,

that is the sound of being alive

in the modern age.

I don’t know when I last felt quiet.

The buzz of particles rushing is the

persistent ring that pops into an ear at altitude,

or after a sudden bang to the lower part of the head:

A metallic smack, the continues to murmer.

 

Against the black window everything is violent light,

sharp edges of orange brown coffee table,

yellow spikes of glass and clumpy shadows,

and then me. Suddenly here in this body that

breathes heavily, and rings in the ears and

the bones.

There is a glass of water I can’t understand,

sitting there with all it’s brash colours bouncing,

the reflections splintering in my eyes and against

the black windows – nothing can get out –

and as the air squeaks perpetually,

I am sure it must be moving.

 

(It hasn’t moved).

‘Tyger Tyger burning bright’ – William Blake

Tyger, Tyger….

Everything feels slightly decayed today, as if there is not enough perfume or soft lighting to redeem it.

I am put in mind of 1984, and the moment when Winston approaches the ageing prostitute with no teeth and make up on her face.

There are so many things I have been afraid of saying because who might hear them: Is it comforting or terrifying to know that someone, very far away might be reading about my decaying afternoon and feeling that they also are likewise being slowly eaten?

Candles make me feel better when I think about these things.

I always knew I would end up being one of those hippy-like people with candles in their lives, mainly because of the glow they produce which has a way of making even a house that feels and smells cheap romantic and warming.

Also, they are a very pretty decaying thing, gold being eaten up by gold.

If I am slowly being killed by this thing, then I hope that it is in that way.

Sometimes the mind feels like a piece of bread, heavy and doughy, with wet, bushy mould infesting its little gaps and crannies, making it solid on the outside, but crumbly on the inside. A dusty thing that falls apart in your hands and leaves a moisture on your skin.

Throw it away, they always say, or freeze your bread to prevent the process.

There are days when I don’t know what they decided to do to me: let me rot, or chill me down?

So cold that everything is more grey.

Today has been a day of stepping out of what I do now that I find myself here, and to wonder how it is I might get out and how I got myself into this place. Living with depression is awaking in a  room with the doorhandles on the outside. In these moments I feel as if my head has come above the parapet for the first time, but also heavy, and apathetic. Even if I saw what was really happening, even if the pills were freezing me down so that I might never re-awaken, what would I do about it?

Maybe I like to think I would break away, and burn. Hot and violent, until there was nothing left.

Some days that type of vibrant self destruction seems like the most truthful course of action, as if I might only then really choose the true path. The designated way.

Who am I? How am I being altered? What is rotting away in an effort to stop it igniting at night?

The small of burn is incense tonight. I am released by the scent, which is released into the air, which I can’t touch or think out of existence.

The rest of me stays here. Decaying.

Poetic aspirations

The birth.

 

The unseen hand pushes his small,

Malleable head,

The heel of a holy palm forcing

Divinity out of her rage,

Being swallowed by the night in

Desperate gulps.

The father holds her back as she strains

Red veins emptying towards the source,

Shaking knees and hands tangled;

For the love of God, just pull

It out, drag It out of her,

Let it be done!

From the stricken cunt comes forth

Blood and water and God,

Gasping,

Black eyes blinking lizard-like in

A wrinkled face,

As old as the world.

Thick cord stretching,

He struggles plaintively against that

Unusual tethering whilst his

Small lips and tongue first taste

Salty sweat from her heaving navel,

Her best gift, too bitter for

That child, who wails.