Hours ... the falling mirror,
It is so cold now, the pale silver
sign I've swallowed and smothered
within. There is only stillness
of jet-black untongued utterances.
Aloof incantations, slaughterhouse
Requiem. It's close - glitter in the omens!
My hands are outstretched. I'm flesh-
Folded in your faith. Consuming me. You?
I grip your face, feline and distant,
Waiting; unfaced. Effaced in blackness;
Vision penetrated. Hours ... grow silences,
Birthing images of you. My fear is you.
I am. Murmurs in the last, broken sentence
You’ve breathed out beasts of better times.
Hours - I long to touch. They turn and itch,
my pulse with locked wings. Nothings. It's
you who burns me through. I rise and rise,
watching you, watching me. Turn away.
You've brought a friend home, shy smiling.
He keeps saying hello, keeps on switching
the lights on and off; won't eat the red fish
given, his host's eyes - glimmering, he looks
away, searches through old Christmas boxes
for a shelter, malachite fluid-filled. Drained.
Passersby, pass. Blessed donations,
transfusions of the small copper tinklings.
Lung waste. It's fun to pretend to wear shell
thorns, one hand nailed, one eye watching
for spectators. Shouting slogans, take
your pale mannequins - strategically placed
mystical signs. War and peace, communion beat -
drum and blaze, getting drunk, getting stoned.
Revolutionary annotator crushed under, sniffs glue
from emaciated hands, shredding the dead, gravel
lines blasting the ashes, children in junk factories.
Fainting formaldehyde funk flower assembly. Father
and mother on the coffin-watch. Silent. Angel spells honey,
s-w-e-e-t. Dirty words in the gun. Do nothing, do fuck all.
Smile, pretty. Less dangerous to be so. Rage and loud noise.
Sucking on oil, on your laptop. Yes, it's them. Not us.
Buttons, we pressed. The veils of the dead flap in the wind.
Their hands so ghostly outstretched for mockery of fuzzy
rats. Shaved heads, prayer beads, emptied minds, nirvana.
Ink numbers, laser-read, sold two for nothing at all. A penny.
Bargain. Death sells, smells just like you. Say no hello.
It's goodbye. Lights out. No sense. Switch it. Flood's behind.
Petra Whiteley © 2009
Eyes in the ground
The moon with the broken spine
of its sleepless hare lashes out
fast and hard, its liquefied light
screams at me -
the black blood putrefied silence,
bed spilt, last breath peeled naked.
Gliding blue with no sound
(no symphony, no sadness)
Is it innocent?
Is it free?
pricks, its dry
sticks sink in, flesh stings,
in the cold. It digs a hole
deep within skull, takes
the surrendered bones
of departed warrior line,
tied tight skin on wheels
its fuel - annihilation,
colour red. Its pulse. Ablaze
in open jaws.
Eyes in the ground, watching
multiple lips flickering sparks,
the lies. Do not scatter them
around these silvery flesh things.
Petra Whiteley © 2009