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claire-bircherPoems
A metallic seat. Hard orange plastic. Strip light sickness. And I look at you. Disinfectant scrubs my throat, sterilising the language I want to use. And I look at you. Naked feet, white tinged with yellow. Invisible socks. Cotton top welts left in your ankles, flattening the spidery hair. So much hair. And I wonder, when did you get so tall? And I look at you. Sallow face, a dehydrated caricature of youth, erased and lined. Needles **** the marrow, the muscle tone gone but stubble erupting, handsome underneath. And I wonder, when was the last time I saw you? And I look at you. Frail arms, thick bandage cuffs giving little comfort to the empty purple beneath. And I wonder, was it how you imagined? Clean blade? Neat slices? Choreographed claret leaving a poignant splash on your final soliloquy? Head to camera, atmospheric lighting, ready for your close up. Someday you’ll be a star. Or was it sordid? Brutal? A smashed bottle? Hacking, mangling, uncontrollable blood aimlessly gushing, drenching the rambling note so the words washed away? No camera angles. No haunting memoir. And I look at you. And I wonder. When did you become so lonely? And I turn away.
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Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
Wearing Invisible Socks
A metallic seat. Hard orange plastic. Strip light sickness. And I look at you. Disinfectant scrubs my throat, sterilising the language I want to use. And I look at you. Naked feet, white tinged with yellow. Invisible socks. Cotton top welts left in your ankles, flattening the spidery hair. So much hair. And I wonder, when did you get so tall? And I look at you. Sallow face, a dehydrated caricature of youth, erased and lined. Needles **** the marrow, the muscle tone gone but stubble erupting, handsome underneath. And I wonder, when was the last time I saw you? And I look at you. Frail arms, thick bandage cuffs giving little comfort to the empty purple beneath. And I wonder, was it how you imagined? Clean blade? Neat slices? Choreographed claret leaving a poignant splash on your final soliloquy? Head to camera, atmospheric lighting, ready for your close up. Someday you’ll be a star. Or was it sordid? Brutal? A smashed bottle? Hacking, mangling, uncontrollable blood aimlessly gushing, drenching the rambling note so the words washed away? No camera angles. No haunting memoir. And I look at you. And I wonder. When did you become so lonely? And I turn away.
Written by
claire-bircher
English
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
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