| |
There is a choice. She said 'To be fair,
I should have four of them so that I
can pick or mix and match.
I do not know what the answer is.'
The question is clear.
See that bright pink
sky sign hanging up ahead -
it is a moment away and this car
will soon shoot underneath, the
pink lights playing across our faces.
We can laugh. Silly children.
Flash lights, spot lights -
do you see me? I see you -
not all at once.
I will hold each memory and
piece it together at a later
stage. I will patch you together
so I can see you whole.
Enthralling revelation.
The pieces here, the pieces there -
they have swooped and swooned together.
I sit on this orange stair,
watching them knit busily.
They are hopelessly entwined.
I bought the sharpest pair of scissors I could find.
Hack that blanket, cut it up.
It taunts me it tells me it laughs at me
You can't have this.
You can't have this.
You can't have this.
There are no scissors sharp enough.
It is stronger than me and
I suppose - yes - I suppose
that is partly the attraction.
So I sit here on this yellow floor.
(I am moving towards the bathroom)
Way one is waiting in the bathroom.
Pristine, clean, brand new.
I venture in, I glance coyly.
They smile at me, beckoning.
Come and get us,
We will make you bleed.
We will make you numb.
We will remind you.
I look -you are so pretty.
I want to, I want to,
I imagine the feeling -
the numb red spurts.
I am waiting - anticipating.
Oh you,
you have been gone for so long.
So many years, it's like
coming home to myself.
The years gone by
were just a clever stupid lie.
Way two in the bedroom, I count
the yellow pills.
Not enough for that
but that is not the aim.
They are merely the first stepping stone.
A handful - enough to
make me numb.
Beautiful pearls
sliding down my throat
slowing me down
slipping me under the covers
and we can cry all day
all week all month hidden.
The living room holds way three.
She's flipped.
She hates hates this opheliablue,
She craves destruction.
What is opheliablue?
No guts no courage no strength.
Delete her.
She knows it would hurt
so she sits there and
deletes some of you instead.
She hopes that will wound her,
perhaps enough to stop
those razors calling her name.
She knows it won't touch
anyone else. The Queen of failure
is asking for deactivation.
(You will be glad) .
A line through her name
could make her smile.
To the kitchen for way four.
A prop, an extra, not enough.
Just take it to bed and it
may make the pearls
sweeter and easier
and it may make her drift.
But it is time to stop writing
and start doing. We will assemble
our props and our stage. We will
get ready for a dress rehearsal.
We know our lines.
We have known them for years.
We think we will be word perfect today.
© Morney Wilson
Morney Wilson
| Submitted Date |
: |
Friday, February 15, 2008 |
| Submitted Date |
: |
Thursday, October 30, 2008 |
|
|
Poets
