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,