- Published on Tuesday, 29 April 2014 16:09
by Sam Alex
Ceci N'est Pas Une Poem
You and I shook hands under a sunburn sky
and agreed to move me, pedicured by worms off the lawn.
I grabbed at my own hands, felt the friction of fruitless labour,
you eye my sense of commitment; this spade is a spade-
is a blade, good for digging graves in an August shade.
My grandfather was a horticulturist, I am a conversationalist-
as I’m pulling spare roots, making space for my boots.
I lift myself a rag doll and gently let myself pass-
like a moment,
like the calm before the storm.
This is because I asked;
How good is your heart?
I’ve a lab coat, a grocery mart scale,
and I weighed the bulk of it to no avail.
It was an empty thing, made anorexic by a ring.
Did we not agree to rob banks and liquor stores?
when we’re gunned down behind our car doors?
and we’d take poison and asps,
and wear the same identical rib-
the one I feel now, crushed by your infidelity.
But you are my valve you say, pig part, we shall bury you too
and so we made a move of me-
me, where I lay- where I collapsed,
and swallowed the past, taste of ash.
Our love is trash, an unrecyclable truth that brought us no use.
Let’s haunt ourselves, the guilt is addictive,
a séance for some sycophants.
Let’s take aim at us,
hunt ourselves down in foxless forests,
I married you for this.
Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars- go directly to hell
You were the thing that shook-
Myriad ships sang you Inuit psalms as I palmed your relics.
You were cold then, sprawled out in your saltwater,
The waking doll.
Your soul came one night in a bluenose.
(you used to come after a whiskey wake)
We Hans Brinkered to greet it and I played operation to get it in you.
Then I liked you best,
When I prodded you with willow sticks just to check.
I lulled it to stay when I dragged it onto my lap like a cat.
The Wright brothers gifted you a new bed,
And you lay not alone.
So I picture that at night.
Skin slick and slapping, slipping into oblivion.
The pearls slid from hand to hand to mouth.
And I wondered then- where was all my doubt,
When I passed cribs and let you say stupid things,
Like the order of hyphenating names?
Would you return to me?
I made you in the dark with scissors and pornography,
My tool belt bright with the handles of screw drivers.
I wore my safety goggles and rolled up my sleeves.
You’re a bottle lost at sea, my little tome.
Sometimes I love you so much I vomit codeine and citalopram.
Sometimes I miss you so badly the zopiclone and lorazepam trace rivets into my ribs-
where tiny maggots reside and take other insects on tourist rides.
At night I dream I stare you down through dirty windows,
And there, etched in the glass:
Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars-
Go directly to hell.
Old Money, New Drugs
Did I just wake up in one of your bad trips?
We’re hocking magazines,
With holler monkey mouths and balled fists.
Strangling baby bunnies in your sleep,
Waking up and handing them to me.
She was thirteen, you played Polanski.
Sucker punched me like a wet daisy-
Pulled back my fist like a corkscrew
And you held up a baby.