i.

Legs slender like a writing pen, feathered hair falling like • angels onto waiting shoulders nourished by the nectar of sunlight, • a liaison with danger barely wearing leather, littering my desk • with petals of bons mots too numerous to collect, sentiments • too superfluous and saccharine to mention, the number of times • I’ve fantasized about this fills my mind’s ledger, you’re not • in this for the money, you’re in it for the • kill, and that’s alright, that’s the thrill, palpitations parade in • •

               ii.

obeisance, take from it that stone-cold stance it faked so • well, a heart like a sea-shaken house shuttered for so • long now cracking open like a shell, flesh dimpled with • flecks of flickering life wears out well the veil of • this temple too numb to feel what all the fuss • is about, what secret sorrow will my face shout, will • my smile reveal (can you tell that I’m miserable or • why)? If your glimpse won’t, then the waves goodbye will, • •

               iii.

do me in, do me in, sinking as I sing • this hymn, throwing out rain my voice bends to fit • its bow, my throat aglow with sparks I can’t swallow • as I drown in shocks of silver arrows sticking through • their thickest winter mist onto blank-faced pages this blushing talk • of us that stings like fingers stuck into sockets; a • hired self reaching down to push out what I wish • I could have let you know before I let you • •

               iv.

go, that to grow up without a father taught me • how to suffer better than those partners who were once • part of me but are no longer, than those whose • families were more than just names and dates on paper, • whose ancestors’ legacies were something other than atrocities, but I • never wanted another more than I wanted power, now I’m • powerless in the darkness of desire, an inveterate lover wounded • by its shrapnel, volatile as æther offering its mediæval temper • •

               v.

in good faith and poor humour to hell-fire as collateral, • a mad peddlar of gunpowder too stubborn to surrender my • arsenal, I am insensitive and sensational, at once groping shadows • and pressing buttons, poking bears and pushing envelopes, dashing hope • and triggering those who believe having it helps, throwing closed • perception’s doors as fast as circumstance has a chance to • open them, uncertain, uncertain, from their myriad shards bulbs rise • from rubble to answer with crackling cries the calls of • •

               vi.

brightness but no technology can refine this, mirrors are liars, • love is a Narcissist whose glance can’t repair the damage • we inflict on our Selves, coming apart at the seams, • I’m a white flag and a black sheep who can’t • manage the carnage of this war’s go-between, whose side are • you on and what did you mean when you said • you wanted to be free when I’m the one running? • Am I becoming something other than my own worst enemy?