The Show

I started sinking;
and all I dreamt of holding on
was you.

We are here.
I didn't expect it to be so cold.
But still.

We're at the show;
you and I.
We're not but we are.

I tried to bring you here,
and you promised to come.
We both lied.

Why?
To keep us happy perhaps;
perhaps we were happy.

Happiness,
its a change, I guess,
of something in my liberties.

Nevermind,
you are here now,
we are here.

It’s time now,
To put on my hats, and my jeans,
and my masks.

And shall we now,
for one last time,
let the show begin?

The show!
Lights, delights, friends and ghosts,
hand in hand, escaping the waking world.

A world of mothers, preachers and others
lost in habits of conjugality.
We sleep, we flee.

Cymbals blast,
pigs fly, trombones blare.
The promise is the same, I know.

Hold on,
we have nowhere to go.
We can stay as long as we wish.

The songs change,
we build our walls.
Higher and higher, till the world’s just a dream.

You wish to dance now?
From within these walls,
and across our spaces?

Ah! So be it.
We dance, we fly,
we swirl and twirl, and swim through space.

And the show slips on,
Visions fade.
Stories die and stories are born.

We’ll never stop now?
Will we?
You won’t leave again, will you?

I don’t want to go,
only to wake up.
Don’t want to want, only to want you.

You can fly,
and I will sing.
And we will sleep, only to dream.

Chill before severing

Naked
he handles me
like a child with a ball
in a shop
full of antiques
priceless, breakable.

Naked
I scream inaudibly.
My night in shining
amour
come
save me.

Naked
I feel my blood coursing
through phantom limbs,
the ones he had
eaten
with great relish, not
because I tasted good
but because he loved
me.

Naked
I enjoyed how his
teeth tore through
my flesh. The ecstasy
of being consumed
by him
leaves me scarred
with his love

Naked
and cold.
Warm with grief.
Blue pain, stained
with love and burning
shame.

dodge this

I met one day a boy on whom the street was walking down.
He leapt upon my shoulder, screaming “Return at once my crown!
I am the King; you are my horse. Now gallop! We are chased!”
“But Sire!” “Fire! Higher, higher! Or we are toxic waste!”

“Toxic waste does not fit in, you crazed and drunken king!”
“Who cares? Whatsthere. That damsel fair is wilting under the horrible curse that is state machinery and we really must save the whales as well and by section something or the other in which there is an act in which there is the coolest scene I shall save her and the whales and all living creatures inbetween and justice shall prevail again I give men hope I keep none for myself and really it is taxonomy and this base urge to classify everything into categories I am critical as you may have noted of impure treason.”
“What?” said I; “What,” said he. “You’re crazy.” “No, you are.”
“You’ve ruined my poem!” “I don’t care about your stupid poem! Freedom! Onward! Outward! Rock and Roll! Shit I have a paper due tomorrow! In the beginning was the Word! Bye. Where’s my shoe?”

What does this mean? We’ll never know. It always comes to this.
I think I’ll have some tea, listen to some soothing music and rest my tired head.
The metric scheme is ruined beyond redemption.
The Muse is weeping bitter tears. But I feel oddly liberated.
Freedom! Ride on, you phalanx of galloping gumboots!