Splendered, walking half in sleep,
and with red glasses cupping teeth,
I am a stranger -
photographed like a chimney mooring it's house with poison
steaming it's frames and running the charcoal down my spine.
These are my lines.
No fashion on a sleeve - I have worn it with plague,
smothering mad, and falling like a crippled ballerina's smile.
I chime like owls; turning to see every shade of black.
A calm would be celebrated but I married a word
and he marred me.
Every ink, a slap - the jolt of turning shades of black,
the jolt of always turning back.
I am a shredded ribbon, a suffering
jet stream behind him, a withering
farcical lace stapled to my face
and it will not unveil
and it will not.
This is a crane standing on the medication
of the national grid;
a crown of fuses
to sparkle the momentary glimpse of the girl
the typist tortures with tripe,
who never lets her go
on a love that will not sleep by means of heart
but by epitaphs read.