Like a Television.
Like a television
With no sound you yap,
When I pick at the thread,
On a Sunday, still
Like a bath. Love/hate is,
A trip to insane.
This is a bowl of fruit
Left out in the sun.
Ranting.
ranting, pathetic insecurities, overwhelm the Christmas tree, and you promise
me a utopia, a sort of subsequential America,
where we’ll fuck & eat & play the craps, Las
Vegas is the only place it’ll happen, &
yet the nameless, intrude like a swarm of fucking locusts
feasting upon the Satin drape of my finest
face, I believe your chest most of all, that’s where
the dragon begins, & the sigh
spills from my eyes. Dead petals favour the corners. Gathering
like they have plans.
There Sits The Perfect.
& there sits the perfect
rose within the glass half-full;
wilted now. The flawless dead
hallucination of hope
& lust socialise & it’s
a fantastic wet-dream of
Brady Bunch delicacy.
(Poor fools, eat your eggs); & what
to do with that abject love-
lust? & brilliant skin of
sex? Where once I would lure
the lonely nudity of
the beautiful stranger? (I
touch only you now & I
feel...relief?) & I wedge the
window with The Odyssey:
12 x 110 lines
of dactylic hexameter,
where so much depends upon
the choices made by women;
the gritty migraine adds Fear
of the Fear & I feel my
misery, is it waiting for
me? But the sun warms his thighs
& after all I saw our
future, & it’s goodbye lonely
lonely, & I might still love
you in the clean of your car...
In the garden? Better not
fuck it up. ‘cause he makes me
—want a tea-towel.
A.
‘Cool, classy sex. Hot, like
midday Melbourne summer.’ Bodies
on a wire hanger; gets
to when you stop counting. The
blue paper is a note not
sent. Under the house boxed up
for keeps, trimmed in yellow; the
marvellous tragedy. Dolled
ambit of love, has shrunk to
the hours between midnight
& three. Ah, wave goodbye as
—another one bites the dust.
& Sure If I Am Not.
& sure if i am not a
pioneer of unrequited
commandeered a dark way out
of ritualistic obsession
obsession keeps a wise man grin
well put. Bloated internals cringe
hard at his sudden introspection
& has not he told us of
overt abject red plied upon
a death dress for Ted’s domestic
oven. & the cat mews in
sepia and wayward
indecision; funny if
it wasn’t. I’m for the wasted,
cigarettes & sex shines oh yes
smart poet’s attraction. I’m
surrounded by bouguereau and
dante non-departed the
dead-pan bewildered & the
clicking & the clacking of the
high-heeled shoe
fuck you, now you
—started
Furrowed Face.
furrowed face rests against you
naked-drunk. Rolling with you
I beg you to fill me up
before the air tastes like
happiness. Now there is
nobody watching the red-
clock & I fear for the minutes
fatigued by hours. & It’s
dark this thing; bloated. Weird this
spinney where we first lay down to
taste tongue as if it were bone; how
here we buried the dog. You
stained me! I need you to leave me
—now misery, run.
About The Idea.
about the idea
of you, him and all;
a new lover’s crush,
sweetly hinged upon
love hope & children,
is dead with the dead
declarations.
The creature inside
is terrible hope
& I will not dance,
for instance.
"Megan Green is a freelance manuscript editor; dreams of becoming a novel completer & is a staunch advocator of words..."
