a dismembered tongue
a bloody stump
with words to speak
a dismembered tongue
a bloody stump
with words to speak
The Good Husband
I ate three large sundaes and a burger,
But was still left hungry
My stomach lined with ice cream and yet more hunger,
Two layers of yearning, like moist bread buns,
disappointment in my mouth. Salty like the sea.
As you droned on I chewed my finger nails, my tongue flicking over flesh.
I was staring at your eyes- whisky in sunlight and just as shallow.
For a while, I considered bludgeoning in your face,
but I settled with spilling my wine in your lap
I always knew how much you loved that pair of trousers
How you thought they emphasised the ant-farm in your underwear.
Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m lying. Honestly. We get up and leave together.
Outside, the sun is dying on the horizon,
his blood pooling around the tatty houses.
I feel red tonight. Like blood and silk and her racy lingerie.
I walk with subtle lust, patting your stained trousers just
a bit too hard. You don’t notice- you never do. The cinema? you ask.
No, a hotel, I reply, honey suffocating my voice.
Afterwards, I put our clothes back on, smiling
grin reflected back at me in your face.
I spray the Chanel No.5 you bought her on her birthday,
A month after I unwrapped a box containing a new toaster.
The nasty hotel room is all the richer, so I make the bed and tidy the room,
for the poor maids. Such sweethearts- I even polish the veneers with your tie,
Catching my reflection in their cheap shine, I admire myself,
if you could see me now you would see a lioness, a goddess among men.
Temptation draws me to the bed where you lie, still smiling. Still handsome.
I resist the urge to jump up and down on the duvet of your body and slip out the door,
bathing in the bleached light of the moon, as she cleans up. Everything looks better now:
A speck of blood on my finger is a ruby ring, the pavement a river of silver.
At home, I ring the police. He’s…
He’s not come home….I’ve never been so worried. Lies taste like apples.
Yes miss, we’ll do our best. I am grateful- hysterical- they are inept.
The line goes dead.
I try on my new black dresses, settling on the one which brings out my curves.
I wear a lipstick red enough to make me think of you. I am a good wife, aren’t I?
*(this is a poem written for school, in the style of Carol Ann Duffy)*
Miming the words to old songs
Echoing the echoes of emotion
As the shower water
Dragon hot to absent cold
Fingers seeking feelings
The bland taste of everyday
Seeps into clothes
the land grows…empty.
Feelings wither in the air
Leaving what should be despair
None. None at all.
Bones fall beneath the immense weight
Paint brush strokes of blue and sienna
Wildly spinning into streaks of muddy
Purpose gone. The paintbrush falls
The meaning gone.
It’s not a mask, it is my face
A riddle of muscles and nerves,
With a serptine tongue in the orchard,
Lurking till you bleed
Is it a smile or a smirk?
I’ll never give the satisfaction of the truth
Ring a ding ding the first grin
And it is MINE not your’s
Take a seat fucker
You stand before my court in disgrace
Daring to question the emotions of my face?
Can you not see, plain as can be,
The euphoric rip of flesh across my chin,
Which sings of infinite happy things
Each so very void of you.
Greetings and seatings and conversational beatings,
And the eye contact you make so fleeting
Beneath my joyous gaze
Intensely eyeing you up,
Pressing my new found happiness into your consciousness,
Like a brand into your brain,
No masquerade ball,
My happiness is not paper thin
I am numb and flailing
In my clumsy grip, behind my back, a rose burns, catching the last trees of paradise and dancing their remains
Into the sky like coal butterflies.
“True love never dies.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,”
The same word
Inhabiting my throat,
Cautiously leaping from my mouth daily
“Why do you apologise so much?”
I reply with I don’t know- sorry
but I do
My body exudes apology,
As it exudes anxious sweat,
But my mere existence
I’m sorry for wasting this space
Where air could be for you
For wasting the ground where trees could grow in my place
Sorry for every cell of my being that respires
“Excuse me, I’m sorry for existing. I can just stand over here
out of the way
out of your minds”
like a plant pot of awkward desire to cease
with blooms fabricated from avoided eye contact
and stems like inward elbows
and drawn up knees
I hate how the thought of you burns my veins,
My hands tremulous with fiery hatred.
I hate how I don’t care, not one bit, how I just don’t give a shit,
But still check on you
Through your friends
Through your profile.
I hate how you said so much
And I hate how I believed you
How I now toy with others
Like a petulant child
I HATE THAT YOU COULD BE HAPPY so I scream my happiness at the top of my lungs
Declaring how much I don’t need
Singing with passion of my own new found joy
To scorn your stupid pretty face.
I hate that there could be someone else- someone definitely better.
I hate that I will pretend not to care
But inside I will tear at the small square space in my heart
Where our love is caged
Twisting in its chrysalis
And bursting fourth with wings of decayed loathing.
Laughter intensely rises in my chest like a thousand drumbeats
Distorted on waves of rising hysteria and panic
As I stare the thought of us straight in the eye and retch at my naivety
How could someone like you ever love a person like me?
For now I see
The beautifully ugly way you moved your body
With its dumbly pretty eyes and gracefully repugnant hands
I SCREAM INTO A PILLOW
dreams take flight at the sound
my own self-hatred abound
I hate you; but mostly I hate me- for loving you.
For trusting you,
it was not Lucifer who was truly cast from Heaven,
It was God
I turn away.
The fairground rain washes away the night.
Whispers. Clattering thunder.
“I don’t care.” I cross my heart and
There’s numbness within,
Bulging deceitfully in him,
Disguised as a heart,
Whilst he makes his art:
Dancing with words,
Lying, puppeteering, even as drink
Falling down his rabbit hole chest,
Not looking, evading
His own breath
A black jumper from a drunk’s a-
Now knitted with aromas;
Wet cigarettes and burnt candyfloss;
Metal rides and a person’s loss;
The smell of heated racing through glass sheets of rain;
Nostalgia broken by fear’s refrain.
He pulls it over his head, recognising the deadened smell
Of spring sheep’s wool
Of hope, after endurance
In winter’s desperate grasp.
The stranger of before runs through starlight,
Giggling with oblivious delight,
The knitted man frays
Choosing instead angry
Of stubborn happiness,
To break the spines of the sober
As if to say “it’s good-
Don’t tell me self-hatred is weaker than love,
It can wreck like a blunt arrow the heart of any dove,
Inward detestation could sink a thousands ships; slay a thousand armies; worse still
It slays my tongue
Before I speak
And so these words of love, I keep.
It breaks my fingertips as they crack with hesitation,
Fearful to touch you,
Lest you feel the ugliness woven into my very DNA,
Unless with our kiss you step back in shock,
Abruptly aware of the loud knock,
Of my pathetic wooden heart
And its far more pathetic owner.
I am not anxious of others hating me,
I have already won that game with myself.
I am only terrified that all these lies,
A broken mirror of despise,
Revealing my pale insides;
Made of desires and chimeras and decay
Built on the foundations of a dead boy’s body,
A boy long dead,
After other ‘humans’ fed his little head,
With what was right
And what was wrong.
Don’t you dare pity me, PITY HIM
For he is King of a legacy of loathing
An inheritance of curled lips yonder deceitful smiles,
Of trembling hips and bloody tiles.
A collection of antiquated memories of a time when I would not collapse at the thought of being me,
Crammed into the recesses of a far too conscious mind,
Which is altogether gone as its spiteful mocking words,
The most truthful spoken, replace him
A metropolitan of dissatisfaction and yearning
Consuming a weeping forest
Which cries out for help from its own children,
Who tear down its trees to excrete into existence
Monstrous pillars into the sky,
Dedications to the disgust,
And the manic grins which lie,
Running electrically through the City streets,
Like over pressed suit trouser pleats.
He walks away with confidence.
Smiling in the sun, exuding scalding joy,
To fill the void of hate
With conviction of contentment,
It’s too late.
What is this sensation?
Deep in my heart?
About you, ‘sweet’heart,
That I just don’t give a fuck,
That I’ve severed my ties,
This sense of abandon
Clinging to my sides.
Grateful for our love,
But slaying our dove,
And feeling satisfied,
With the freedom of loneliness,
As it dies.
No waiting for a reply,
Or yearning for your touch,
Just a fantastic amount of bright blue non-fucks.