tumble through me
stroke lick suck.
fist-fulls of hair
precipitate wild imaginings
but it’s not enough
to staunch
this exodus.
of all that’s gone before .
imagine a summer dress
crumpled-torn
and berries pressed into gasping mouth.
fingers, blue-purple grained.
my needlework is amateur
and these stains are permanent.
It was difficult for her to write. With him in there. She was pretty much full up with him.
Or rather, it was difficult for her to write of anything other. She was soaked full of him and life was a succession of moments away from or until the next time.
With him. Either a thickening, riding pulse or a slow, weighted grip. A steady beating behind every waking thought and action. When inanimate objects shouted out his name and she spun around to see who else had heard. She bumped into the outside more than usual and yet noticed everything. Colour was brighter, water was wetter, desire was ripe to split.
She tailgated and slam full braked while in her mind she danced with him, half dressed. In slipped stockings as his hair brow-clung, shiny-dark as a rooks wing. And in the bleary pull from sleep she wrench twisted to stay inside their cocoon and felt her life blood dilute into the fug of daily functioning.
Always-everytime, there was a massive dose of him. At the back of it all. Behind her, pulling hair, hot mouth to skin, whispering filth and filling gaps. He had her insides, she felt he looked at them, hourly, and when he did, her world lurched and her edges stopped their bleeding.
As the clouds bouldered heavy
down hills, strobing patchwork fields,
he discarded my words and I flushed
flowing red , spilling out thick,
covering my landscape in darkness.
As they roared unfixed, placing me
in their grumbling charge, unhinging
until the pressure was just enough
on moon white flesh to spark ideas
of blood letting and rivers shiny wet.
As the rooks gathered like bad memories,
black blown ragged in trees,
I walked away, inside
each bloody repercussion
too full , too huge to stop the flow.
