There are seven people in this head
Waiting at a panel
With placards of who they are;
She with the cat skin
And wicked ways
Is called ‘Fervour’
(And she’ll kill you twice with words)
He with the monkey nose
And crooked teeth
(He’ll get away with it all)
She with the pencil hair
And tilted glasses
(she’s scared of you and everything)
He with the deciphering vision
And long, straw legs
Is called ‘Thak’
(He pretends to know the poets)
She with eleven cats and reasons
To float away from it all
(She sleep walks in Atlantis)
She with the sewn-up lips
And hollow face
(She decays from a past she’ll never let go of)
It with a mind of turnstiles
Useless information and imagery, lost
Has no name
(A wisp which exists when knowledge solidifies)
Every night we battle
There is rarely a conclusion
And I am left instead
With a head full of blood
And a name that isn’t mine
Where trouble stays.
And gaping gashes
On bashed up
She is what she is.
Black liner eyes
Shiny, scarlet smile
‘Cause I’ve got places to be.”
The space between us is haunted.
A spectre of the present’s heart
Looms like a heavy vessel sinking.
The souls on board are desperate.
The captain stands within the chaos,
“I’ll go down with the ship!” He cries,
As if to remind himself why
He chooses to grip the mast so tight.
Our ocean is fast suffocating our swimmers.
Our pull is dragging everything under.
The ghostly galleon re-enacts its demise
In this haunted space
He traces her rippling spine
Pressing against the whisper-thin bareflesh of her back.
Leaning over the end of the bed
Her toes trail in the open sea of the carpet.
She doesn’t move from his touch.
His fingertip runs across the undulating waves of her ribs
Waves without current,
Inhaling pulls her skin taught,
For just a moment.
He likes that moment.
In that moment she is alive.
He wants to bottle up his own energy and feed it to her intravenously.
Even with her back to him he can feel her
Within her body,
Somewhere far off,
But still there.
He slides his fingers into the gaps of her breathing bones
Transferring warmth to her naked body
By way of filling negative space
Making sure she knows
She mustn’t leave
Not at all
For as long as you need.
She couldn’t avoid the mess of the subway,
Its piss fragrance and dirty skin
Was unpredictable at best,
But twenty four hour none the less.
The stench got into her throat some days
Even when she thought to avoid it,
By walking the surface,
A grating nearby would exhale
The underground’s oil and heavy smoke
With every passing shriek of a full engine.
You blush like a flower
I peel your paper layers
Their lines like scars
And await your flesh
Pretend you smell like blossoms
But really when you’re cut
You just make everyone wanna cry
There was an itch
She couldn’t scratch
There’s no itch
Because she cant feel her skin