Burns
Perhaps she reminded me of me;
flesh melted, her forever childish smile –
how the wax folds upturned her mouth
and the yarrow splits around her eyes,
those picked at -the stems of veins
crawling around her ears.
I need to get better,
close her sorrow around me
like that gentle fur of the toy kitten she holds -
I need to hold her and know what she knows.
No man will ever kiss her.
To let her exist beyond the realm
of my own insipid girl erupting,
I need to get better -
knowing, no caution and yet also
I need her to see she hurts me
with her forever childish smile
and the instruction of a match
she itched across her face. Why did she do it?
“Please Wake Up” She says.
Sometimes
she reminds me of you -
who held me in the
precision of my own mind, each time like a fire from the inner
features of our own iconography;
she reminds me of you -
who held me in the
precision of my own mind, each time like a fire from the inner
features of our own iconography;
Torture,
Depression – “Please wake UP” She says.
Depression – “Please wake UP” She says.
Her eyes are always half closed.
(Burn that victim out of you, you would think,
but please wake up.)
These are not right places to be, you must obstruct;
face the colour of inclusion –
the mirror dripping down the eyes
of nurses, tongues clicking, pens –
of nurses, tongues clicking, pens –
smiles, milligrams of smiles
in the shock of the small sleeps in between.
in the shock of the small sleeps in between.
She reminds me of me,
how the courage
I have lacks
I have lacks
in the arguments, past strain.
Composed, they should make a ballet of her face –
Composed, they should make a ballet of her face –
shade the taut skin as lily petals in psychosis,
stretch the girl across the stage
and have a moon
shine on the dull black faces of the audience.
and have a moon
shine on the dull black faces of the audience.
I am not being fair –
I need to get better.
Stop poking at ants crawling over sunburnt ground.
I need to get better.
Stop poking at ants crawling over sunburnt ground.
“Please Wake Up” she says, surprising,
there allowing
there allowing
a mother in words from her forever
childish face.
childish face.
These are places that our hold can exist;
a mile of delusion from an inch
of plausible thought –
a mile of delusion from an inch
of plausible thought –
an instruction of consciousness,
the bare face of it –
the bare face of it –
Please Wake Up, it says,
Please.
Please.
Tommy Carroll
Tue 29th Jul 2014 15:36
hmm- it bares rereading Marianne. I'm not sure there is only one narrative employed here. Even mischievous text to what end I know not. It bares, as I say, a rereading. Tommy