I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.

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Uses for Electrical Tape

October 14, 2012 at 7:39 pm (Bodies, poem, Uncategorized) (, , , , )

Bookspines rebound, latticed, black with it.
When sole of your boots came loose
you taped the mouth closed.

Repossessed jars labelled, white ink on vinyl:
buttons, grain, safety pins.

A violin, the new polished neck marked while
her fingers found their place. And those finger tips
wound up in tape as she played,
preventing the blisters.
she always made a terrible sound.

You marked the floorboards with the parameters of your dance,
perforated black lines.
She attended to the stereo wires
as the music started to crack. Affixed, twisted back in
on themselves; wringing out another year of sound.

It kept her in place
where it held that skin indented
like marzipan –
Your wrist bone pressed into hers, tape looped
in a figure of eight. An infinite.

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