• Time to read 1 minute

Where are all the warhorses?
The streets look so empty,
The tar is turning cold.

I dream of her rising,
A softly scented seraph,
And wading at the window
Where sunlight eviscerates
                                Patricide.

His hands clasping her shoulder blades
The pulse
In his fingertips-
The softly uttered
entries; her skin like a desiccated diary. 
The knuckles etched
In poetry. The knuckles etched
In flesh.
The boulevards are cautious
The placards neatly stacked away—

The solo echo generations wide
rumbles across the bedspread
Whipping her legs open,
Wide like a body thrown through plasterboard.
My transmuted frustration
Has fused into lust
For war, for war, for war. 

Who glued this world together
And stole from us
The music of desperation? 

For, 
    Softly, softly
She has seen him
And when I close my eyes
And when my mouth it opens
She shall know him
And when she holds me
She shall love him
And when I remember her
     Softly, softly
She shall wear his hands
Like bracelets
Wear his vocal cords
Like earrings
Wear his palms
Like negligee
   Softly, softly
The matriarch
Is mud dripping from
The portraits of 
Pretty families
That circle our bedroom
Silently disagreeing. 
  Softly, softly
She is forgotten
When she feels his heat upon her,
When her heart reduced 
To spluttering arteries-
Tuneless and guttural-
Idolises the maternal 
And chews the core 
Of his contempt. 
Bitter, 
We swallow. 
                    The meat matted with muscle
And slathered in soporific slogans
That I sell as my soul. 

The warhorses
I hear
Are housed 
Or sent off to the glue factory. 

 

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