Comments about MARINA GIPPS
This Death In The Morning Repertoire
The clock ticks back and forth
As an old woman swats a fly.
Her years of hunger are “shooed away”.
Her hands outstretched christ-like at times
Yet offering nothing but false stigmatas.
She floats through a crowd
As if an Italian parade for the Blessed Virgin.
She croons aftermath ballads in the shower.
Strangers hum this same melody on the streets.
Some whistle this woe shining shoes.
All of them alive despite
This death in the morning repertoire.
A pit in her stomach where she seeks him no more.
She rises above the soot from where she once ...
Black glove at my neck- the end of the year.
Those lovers were soldiers, bed spies,
bombs of leg losing, the mind dropping in one blow.
Masters of bullets, sacred sabotage, reasons why
I listened to the radio blaring the sweet song
of someone else's bad news.
Voices of valleys in the distance,