Virus
I have a
thought; exact
in its weight,
the drag of my
forehead down
into my chest -
a pompous,
self-eclipsed
thought
consumed in
the possession
of my
imaginary
husband,
my imaginary
parents and
god.
This thought is
confident,
observed by
rejection
and prospering
in the infantile
way my
feminine
heart paints the
sly pain on.
It began in the
bowels of my
teenage year,
began in the
echoing drip of
my pummelling
hands,
stroking a lake
of words; ink dyes of
my meat, a
radium heart
that would not
let me sleep.
Thanatos
injected,
prescription
shaped, pen
driven;
my blood type,
paler still;
the sex of
words – those
warm budding
thoughts -
that split my
head with
several hissing
tongues
were the
bulrush waves
cemented flat
by Poseidon;
his syllables
silk-draped
through the
open windows
where sweat
met night, met
morning,
devouring my
chill; eyes dried
berserk.
The thought
persisted, the
thought was
sound,
my politic, my
cancer stick,
my shake of hip
and waxed
lyric;
narcotic strips
of yellow
mouths
around each
day I take as
ready as a pill.
It became
something to
conceal
with kohl and
alcohol,
vacuum pack
within the shiny
walls
of a mirrored
hall; the
backdrop of its
sneeze
so uncensored
by any doctor’s
note.
Laura Taylor
Wed 24th Apr 2013 09:53
This is fantastic - so densely packed with ideas and images. You are experimenting like crazy these days and it's ace!