An English Wednesday
The Hollow Skies of Yorkshire
Come lover, see my little wings?
These shoulder blades have sprouted,
feathers are pushing their way out of
my aged skin seeking the sacred light,
though stunted by way of being bound
by cheap cotton and heavy winter coats
they are growing fast.
Come look closer; See? I am a squab
angel, listen; I whistle and wheeze
when I try to find my voice. Go ahead.
Trace them with your index finger, follow
their hard keratinous outline as they push
through my outer epidermal layers.
Feast your tongue on my sweat, taste
the remnants of soap perfumes; kiss them.
Feel my growing wings because by next week
I will take to the skies and abandon you here.
Leave you for the earth to swallow, to seek
salvation swimming in the hollow skies of
She has “inverted commas” about her hair,
italics adorn her mouth, she is dressed
in golden quotes of azure and blue peacock ink;
commas draw the capitals from around
her paragraphed existence for she is word made flesh,
the definite article of vitalized breath
bound by iron brackets of wisdom.
Intuition and metaphors fall from her fingers
like the seeds to untold stories as her eyes
burn you with secret meaning and allegory;
her gestures are golden, her words jewels
thrown to the underlined world as she walks
among poets with flaming racing tongues.
She is sculpted with letters etched to her skin,
limbs extended like a dancer as articles of air;
quotes drip like honey from her lusty lips as
from our heart she sips our sacred unspoken
thoughts she is the word made flesh drawn from lead
or ink but in an instant gone when our thought
drowns in mystic sleep where she is all dream,
visions beyond compare or description, the
surreal melting of our eternity the ungraspable
mermaid of fiction.
There is a well beneath my flesh from where I draw my ink.
A wound I place my thoughts within and watch them slowly sink.
There’s a gaping hole between my ribs within which I place my hand,
to find not flowing blood but coarse and running sand; I mine my body
every hour but find no precious diamond only dead discarded iron rusts
on my horizons.
I would gladly fall in a domestic war but there is none only a suppurating peace,
no creeping threat approaches to make my tepid thinking cease;
I dream of peace for my spirit, quietude for my psyche,
plead in whispers powerless beneath my breath for the key to my release,
but nothing rises from this well, no words, no incantation, no spell or formulae
I remain wounded, broken, alien without hope of breaking free.
There is beneath my skin an abyss of pulsing distress, a chasm drawn between us
of wordless emptiness.
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