Friday, September 30, 2016

trapdoor ...


trapdoor ...

the floor
under your feet
disappears
like the trap door in
some sad magician's act
and you plummet through
the stage floor of loneliness to
the saving mattress below
where you land spread-eagled
and tumble into his arms
your lover from before me
the man who made you
feel the pain of losing hope
and here he is again
making slow love to you
in waves of hips
cresting just above your line of vision
you say "No"
but he is already finishing
and rolling off
of you in a deep snore

you rise from the bed
slap my face once
and again
and then a third time
before you realise that
i am not there
just some streams of dust
sliding in parallel lines
down the rays of light
that seep through the open door
from the hallway chandelier
so you shout obscenities
at the moonlit window
that throws the same or worse
back at you from the
distorted reflection
of only you flailing at
the emptiness
there in the centre of the room
naked and still wet
with the sweat
from the sex you hated
but wanted
loathed
but had
with the man in the bed
who is groaning and
telling you to
"shut the fuck up"

i loved you once
in the gold glow of the deepest dawn
i loved your body
that encircled me like a vine
loved the feel of your legs carving across my back
loved the way your arms searched for the
solid mortar of my soul
even when all you found
were walls of the finest
gossamer that floated
away into the dark clouds of a crimson sunset
and still you clung
to the words
that drifted from me
across empty pages
words that fell from ragged envelopes
letters and scribbled stains of old promises
that smeared into illegible
smudges the moment
you sought to fix them
into vows of permanence
with the blotter of your need

in the valley where i'm living
i walk along the back roads
and sometimes i think of you
but not too often
the last i heard
you were travelling through
Eastern Europe or
possibly France
travelling alone
or with a partner
a younger man some say
while others say no
a much older lover
but i never wonder
never guess
at what you're doing
or about the men you're with
i am only sad
that you still drink the
wine of hope and perform
the sacrament of speculation
at how it might have been
while failing to remember
how it was

 





Here's what I'm listening to this morning ...


Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas ♫ Undertow





 








 
 


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