I thought I knew the weight of a glance:
The gentle glimmer of the wind’s dance;
The meadow’s dew-clad morning scent;
The sun celebrating the cloud’s relent;
The soft tongues of dusk’s dark skin;
The warmest touch of the night within.
Until, one moment, meeting by chance,
You showed me what lies beyond the glance.
His pink and blood flecked face stares out,
From the scarred asphalt paving slabs.
A thousand footsteps press about,
Hammering his eternal scabs.
Flashes pelt his gold-embossed name,
A famous body never seen,
Broken and crushed, looking the same,
A Hollywood grave for James Dean.
First Night Jitters
Could she smell her own blood as she stepped down,
The rubber-clad steps of the Greyhound bus?
Did she taste the flavour of corruption,
The street’s glowing slime and contagious pus?
‘Make sure when you arrive there, you call us.’
Her mother’s gentle, caring reminder.
Now rocking warm and alone, a foetus
With an entire lifetime left behind her.
The hungry boulevard has no grandeur,
Her stilettos beat out her innocence.
The wolves emerge from their red-lit shelter,
Keen snouts pricking the air for precious scents.
One night down so many more to be lived.
To what end if the first is not survived?
Second Week Realisation
The morning coffee smells like a rare gift,
Undeserved, yet so desperately grateful.
She stares vacantly into the black rift,
Tiled with sunshine, her corpse sips and feels full.
Her fake Gucci bag by her blistered feet,
Across the path, she spies its reflection.
Its white, lambskin handles kiss the hot street,
Whilst its owner basks in blank pretention.
Such women are made of her childhood dreams,
Mannequins littering her childhood home.
She slams down her half-drunk coffee and screams,
The dummies stare from their faces of stone.
She goes clattering off down the sidewalk,
Out of earshot, the women do not talk.
Third Month Numb
Skin-like scales of torn paper make their bed,
On the tessellated floor of her home,
Once important lines marked over with red,
Now hollow and torn, their meanings unknown.
Scraps of language littering her sweet head,
So many tongues and names, yet she’s alone.
The woman she was in her dreams is dead
Her own voice a blank, cadaverous tone.
Her life lies in piles, just size two algae,
Her eyes have bled out, her pelvis aching,
She so yearned to be an anomaly,
But ended up the same as everything.
A body sold on a sun-baked story,
And then sold again for next to nothing.
The evening’s ghost clings fast to your bowed head,
The morning sunlight trickling through the night,
You leave the dark souls to play with their dead,
Turning your eyes to dawn’s soft crimson light.
The music of midnight fades out of sight,
Animated dolls collapse where they stand,
Sleeping kids exit their worlds full of fright,
Whispering back to the warm, living land.
And Morpheus slowly lets go your hand,
Taking your waking dreams far, far away,
Leaving you so still, staring where you stand
Though you silently beg for him to stay.
And the faintest talons of night’s brisk cold,
Vanish as black becomes glittering gold.
Unsure as I am on how to proceed
I bow to your summons, defer to your need.
For I see in your eyes
The plea to despise,
And I, like a pill, succumb to your greed.
What will you do when I break from my cell,
Not heeding your call, ignoring your yell?
Will you wither and die,
Or scream, scold and lie,
As I drag your soul down to foul hell?
Their points tiptoe across
The surface of his skin,
Poking holes therein,
Leaving his body in distress.
Their burning stab still slays,
When he tightens his eyes,
Their bite draws weak cries,
It's forever like that. Always.
He accepts their poisoned sting,
The needles dig deeper,
Reminding him of her,
That, in truth, she is everything.
