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Calluna Vulgaris (Avalanche, Catholic Guilt and Spitting Cobras)

August 30, 2013

The White Star Line vessels Olympic and Titanic under construction in Harland and Wolff's shipyard, Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1909-1911.

I gave you my spotlight.
And you hid your eyes.
Blind little bunny.
Far too honest to flee.
From the dumb advance of the truck.
The concert never complete.
‘Til I’ve your numb attention.
Your skinny arse in the seat.
Your ticket bought.
Your eyes all lit up.
‘Til you’re ready to give me.
One half hearted charity fuck.
Such luck, Pierrot, such luck!
The Moon’s my sole friend.
But we never even went.
How’d you think that effects me?
To find they faked the whole thing on a lot?

At first it was second to silence.
Unleashed five drinks after the fourth.
Not a curse.
Not as course.
As the whip it became.
It was succor and shade and pressure released.
It was one hell of a show!
But later.
Later.
Then it was a razor.
A ready target on a rolled back sleeve.
Suffocating grease paint.
And then.
It was all that remained.
Tell me, my exiled serfs and lovers.
Tell me.
Were you not entertained?
Were your ears not burning?
Did your stomachs not turn?

Each drop on my wrist.
Had never tasted so good.
Tell me Red.
Tell me Rain.
Did you hear the creak of the wood?
Letter by letter.
Limb by limb.
On that solitary hill.
She said;
“A boy like you could do so much better.”
Given the blood and the setting.
And her love of selfish mercy.
Well.
She would.

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From → Poetry

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