I added a frame to compensate for redbubble’s habit of using square thumbnails. Here’s the image without such distortions (still on redbubble through this link.)
Sarcasm is its own reward.
Bones on the outside, like insects, sure.
If you Give me a chance I’ll tell you how to lose,
how to become whatever it happens you mostly revile when you’re alone
and trying quietude for an experiment.
There is no way out of this, this is stuck-dom, stuck-ville,
for Christ’s sake give me a plate full of ashes
and a smothered wreathe and why don’t you ask me one more time, I’ll find the right way to say it.
Ask me again. I’ll say the same thing in a different way and on the couch this time in the night,
singing softly and whispering into my hair.
I’ll show you my teeth and you can twist hairs on my arm so that you know that I know that you’re there.
Wishing for time to see, lips curled like paper on a fire,
man that’s not the world shaking – that’s just you. I love it when ads for colour fade.
Lifting up in quiet suspension and Christ did you see that guy’s fucking NECK?
Offer me a corner in the parlour with soft wrapping on the outside,
lights and stretched skin, translucent like
grass on a spring afternoon only skin, not grass. Offer me this and a few more and ask me again.
This time I’ll tell you a story with highlights in red
and we’ll both fall backwards laughing into summer with our arms full of flowers clutched a little too tightly. Soft cheek carved into light smell of cigarettes and warm wine,
- tolerance and conviction clean into pure water, sure, in the morning?
Their love story, it’s famous, a princess at Christmas-time,
iron that’s pitted and scarred and cool and heavy in your hand.
Walking on the beach muttering vigorous, separated by cloth-backed, dark books.
Trying again and so hard this time laced and buckled and arcane,
accentuated and caressed. Willed into existence with a strangled gasp.
Can’t give can’t touch what’s inside me.
In a grotesquery of pinched bones and drawing
tightness. Beating against my ribs I have swallowed
a murder of crows an assassin of ravens or a murderer. An assassin. A juggler.
These streets that are really just snakes and fires like that are lies.
These worlds that hurt and are pins in flesh, like before.
This compassion. This fever.
This moment and fall. It’s happy only-after, gripped and cramped sucked kissed and choking.
In the moonlight with a pulse and a flower
to her skin.
Sleep with me.
Push my head to your chest so I can hear your heart.
Cry in your sleep.
Breathe into my open mouth.
These are the words
that will not make
- Paul D Robertson Perth West Australia. Friday night. Friday, ten o’clock and I am wearing my cat because she will not get off me.