“The tower is my body, the cage is my skull, and the spirit singing to comfort itself is me. But I am not comforted, I am alone. **** me.”
Sexing The Cherry - Jeannette Winterson
The boy who came from the sea was born
In 1989 with eleven hyenas and a powdered grace and an IV in one of
Those sad street lights
One mid-morning all the neon light flickering from last night’s
Tired and under-sexed collision of bodies on mercury.
The mother beget the sea while she was dancing and
All the exotic and fancy things that come with it
Is written on the newspaper
She dangled back and forth in the chandelier while giving birth and a gun in her
Hand: the whole world was in her hands.
Blood and flesh debris are pink as shore and pale as rubies like
Exploding stars.
People begin to ask you: “How’d you stay alive?”
The mother’s nightly arrival at that city burns the sorrows of all the light bulbs:
“Help me please” typed on a marquee.
If you sing the birth of your death, everyone will sing: lie down, don’t cry be alive again.
The sea born seemingly dead already returning back to hell, only can be restored by
The mother’s lovingly touch but the touch of hers burns the sea
When she is barely warm.
Cold-hearted angels will rescue you and you’ll be free-
Only for tonight.
The sea, sized milk carton box and the mother drives south this year.
People filled to watch the sea but it radiates they can’t be near you.
No one will save you.