In the dark, the bedsheets were foreign to me,
holding porcelain patterns
From woven silk, one of my feet dangled free,
and upon the calloused skin I felt cold air.
The bead curtain rattled like she had just left;
I, with thoughts of her forked tongue from scaled bodice.
Seems I had come to nought,
turned victim of theft,
like a landlord gives hope then cancels the lease.
She was meant as revery disguised respite,
but with her back turned spreading curtains’ beads
her mind dots with currency, of matters trite;
I understand now that I must change her creed.
To teach her love not monetarily gained, I
destitute, know the ways of living now;
disconnect, no longer drown in life feigned.
To heat hearts the factory must be burned down.
Naiveté has struck her as thorned thumb,
I will suck the wound gentle til solid thought flows.
We will come to clarity, a pure trust in sum,
then travel speedily, horizons turn to ghosts!
But lo! I take heed – my thoughts she does encroach,
returns with shadowed mass -
lumbering willow that weeps across his shoulders, his skin cockroach.
He says loudly: “I should take you for a crow!”
“Crow?” say I, somewhat surprised, “Whatever for?”
And he: “Dark wings who steal the shiny things of mine.
She cannot be stolen.
I will make you sore.”
I think: His wits match only his mundane crimes.
“Not crow,” say I, “you mean to accuse me magpie,
but I do not steal from those who have nothing.”
I look to her cowering: “Do not seek to cry,
when he is gone; do not think of running.”
And she speaks now, her forked tongue having vanished,
attempts to dissuade me now knowing my cause,
believing I to be weak, a mule famished, panicked,
carrying burdens to meekly draw.
As if I am lost in the decrepit sways
of the urbane, seeking solace in her,
and acting in purely irrational ways,
when all I feel is calm. How I know her
I show a teethy smile, her eyes touring,
how she knows, she knows! Having seen me before
come back in the dark, like cat before morning
to sleep after prey has been quartered from claws.
“I belong to him,” she paws his dirt jacket,
sympathetic. I should be empathetic
understanding deals: idiosyncratic
love between melting wax and a flaming wick.
“You gotta pay damn it,” she says scared, “then run!”
The brute rises nodding inevitably,
like earth is possessed to orbit the sun,
approaching stoic not knowing of me.
“Give me cash,” comes as mere suggestion to I;
with a wink and a flicker glimmers metal
and his broad throat grins a hell-chasm
and she cries
as he tries to struggle free.
She becomes an hourglass in the doorframe,
shapely transluscent, a lamp without shade
from her head to her toes I see the sand drain.
She will run perhaps, though maybe she will stay.
I watch her drowning many stupified gasps
holding to the frame as if she’s within ship
Bit by poisonous asps, she gags as he gargles from throaty sips.
“Seems ‘crow’ is accurate,” I say to my blade,
“For I become murder when I’m with friends.”
I wipe his face clean across brute newly made
easel; impressionist dab of light I send.
“Come hither!” I scream to her fading footsteps
“You will not get far!” Her toes sound of raindrops
on the hardwood floor, a match for the quicksteps
of my quick heels – always ready for the block.
“It is just you and I, left to fight!” I scream
“What misery, in time, such a world has birthed,
where ever tread man he fears the next!
Maybe we can start in new vigourous mirth.
Come back here and we will find a home together,
at least in the refuse the world has left bare.
We will get married in the dust you will learn,
form beauty from the faithless muck, like clay-ware!
You will grow large, bulbous, and litter a litter
of small dark children who bleed tar and smuggle.
They will have to! Of having been born in the shitter!
And born of anger!
How they will know the struggle!
They will be strong oxen with bloody-born muscles
to plow fertility from futility, babies no longer
starving from empty suckles.”
I see her shadow sweep around a corner,
fled to the streets into derelict market.
Another wrong, I fear, so late in the hour.
For both her and I! Foolish I
having no snare set.
They will see the nubile nude as invitation.
I would have shown her the love, O, and the light.
They will steal her youth as form of masturbation.
They will show their love gathering as dark blight.
She is pulled to the ground savaged by dark strangers
of the unkind, the desperate. And I wish
her in Hell for it would be a lighter curse.
In the muddy rain she flounders like a fish.
They are the black in the night,
wear robes of dead;
wish her not upon those lost in light.
Hooded with hooked noses, balding of the head,
squawking and flapping their arms:
the real magpies.