when i think of the damp
mustiness of the pillows
the smell of home that
is like a near gustatory
warm hug, a slobbery french kiss,
miss
the flavour of
the red red rust and the old but shiny
metal bones
on other days, days just go walking down
away from the femininity (moon?) or masculinity (definitely not the sun)
of dates and if the Doctor's report is to be trusted at all,
time/universe/orwhatever
fooling around
and being the age old immune system supressing
curse carrier
when i think of shiny i don't think of the sun
i think of the dull the damp
the shut in, away from heliocentrism, the dark, sparks and the game of
whack-a-mole, but the mole never comes out, shout and scream, dream but never be seen, screen but made of smokes and promises
when i think of shiny i think of shiny metal chains wrapped around my jugular
but i also think of the damp
mustiness and the rust in my home, the fault lines in my steel bones
and how my home (and a tiny sliver of me)
would not be home (a tiny sliver of me)
without it
YOU ARE READING
Revèuse
Poetry"Everyday we prepare a face, to face the faces we must face." TS Eliot this book will never end, it's a way for me to keep pieces of me safe.
