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The Banned List

 

in the shards of rain, an afterthought, an aftertaste.
you daffodil, my daffodil, last night I imagined you full of thorns
and your heart a ziggurat, high and barbed and broken.
now epiphany fade, let possibility fester.
it’s quiet now this not-rain.
blobs are lobbed about like slobber, a dream is a slab of never sprouting bulbs.
take off the layers, anti-palimpsest,
take off your layers until your soul is bare or you’re naked and full of lust,
plethora of touch.
gossamer skin, gossamer draped.
it extends and folds and becomes a spiral, ammonite memory.
o hark, o shrink away,
destiny is dull and full of false starts,
our rectal dawn, it’s dark when it should be alive with light, a false wormhole.
yet when I see your lips I taste candyfloss, never regret .
sunset, you’re taking all our light, greedy sunset.
fronds of fingers entwine to pray, so your fingertips are vows ,
lucid prayers.
caviar is tasteless, the world is spilt milt, don’t cry over it.
I’m not as sapient as my height suggests, sometimes I fold,
every out of place tesserae is a debt unpaid.
remember the loo of love where we first kissed, your white arms, the white tiles,
some things I cannot ever understand, I googled you and saw a turnip-snedder.
this pace slackens, we’re poised to shriek but when we yell it’s to lament.
lambent not, harsh fire burning on.
say not we’re lazy, say not that you’re scared I’ll sneeze, say nothing about snot.
jesus, I believe in you, I always have,
or that humdinger of a lie you tell,
it shimmers on the surface of waking.
make a wave on the water,
make the water take light far away.
golden ache, burnished fate, false heartbreak .
now I can’t taste mangos for their sweetness,
I want bitter fruit, they’re beautiful and under-ripe.
harbinger of naught,
a myriad tracery of scampering clouds and nothing is ever translucent now.
even your skin seems hard,
even the sky seems heavy with honking skeins.
azure no more.
when I reach out a hand the air is an impenetrable carapace
and the only touch I feel are the tendrils of what never was.
these words become an orb made hollow, don’t follow them,
these words can never be cerulean, just bleak and secret
and their zenith offers naught, a sudden end to light,
a sudden end to thought.

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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