All my silent cries
Are two edged daggers,
Peeling the walls of
My throat
One swig at a time

While the stars danced
To vile tunes –
My melancholy was the crowbar
To force open
The drawers of self-loathing
And anxiety.

Purple nights crept up
Behind old walls
Of shadow puppets, playing out
Ghastly scenes in past tense;

You dwelt comfortably
In plagiarized tales,
Mimicking my skin;
Each night
I find myself,
Renewing the lease
Of your stay.

When I run out of metaphors,
There is Famine –
Gnawing,
At the cornice of my
Failed charade,
Or making love
To the tunes in my head –

I cannot tell.

22 March 2017

 

(Motel (2015), Clem Crosby Image courtesy Pippy Houldsworth gallery)

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2 thoughts on “Tell-Tale(s)

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